


COMES A HORSEMAN

by skyefullofstars



Series: COMES A HORSEMAN, BOOKS 1 AND 2 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, BAMF Lestrade, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Slash, Language, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Murder, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, Mystery, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/pseuds/skyefullofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is targeting Lestrade's people.  Mycroft Holmes visits the latest crime scene to confer with Greg...and takes a bullet meant for the Detective Inspector.  Needless to say, this does not sit well with Greg Lestrade...or with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.  Can Lestrade, Sherlock and John discover the would-be assassin - before he or she strikes again?</p><p>Author's Note:  This is a standalone work and is NOT part of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON universe.  Written for the AO3 Fundraiser Auction Winner who bid on me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. EAGLES OF THE CAUCASUS

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**COMES A HORSEMAN**

skyfullofstars

**Part One:  EAGLES OF THE CAUCASUS**

**For** feliciaHM **who won me in the AO3 Auction.  Thank you for your continuing patience and kind texts while I worked through a recent illness,  Sweetie. Hope this is what you were going for!  ‘sky’**

**OooOooO**

**[Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal100681.html) ** **  
[James A. Baldwin](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/j/james_a_baldwin.html) **

   

**OooOooO**

Ch. 1

Later, he will remember the scene in shades of grey and crimson, dull yellow and flashing electric blue:  dull grey morning barely lit by a dim and struggling sun.  Nearly but not yet raining.  Low clouds, also grey.  A depressing shade that matches the paler strands in the DI’s hair, as he stands, nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, speaking in low tones as Sherlock crouches over the body. 

He will recall the dark grey of the tarmac, beginning to glisten here and there as the rain finally decides to put in an appearance.  He will remember the charcoal shade of his own bespoke suit as he glances down to brush an offending bit of fluff from his waistcoat.

Of course, it is a Tuesday, his usual meetings day.  He always wears the grey suit with the red tie on Tuesdays.  Grey to show that he is solidly British, a highly educated, socially correct, painfully courteous representative of the British government.  And crimson – to show he is hardly a pushover.  It was Anthea who recommended the color combination and Mycroft found that it works quite well on Tuesdays.

He will remember the cool mist as it begins to settle across his face, coalescing into actual raindrops, as he quickly raises the ever-present umbrella.  And he will hear again the swish of Sherlock’s coat as his brother kneels next to the body, pocket magnifier in hand. Much later, he will be grateful for the presence of John Watson as he stands to his brother’s side, taking notes as Sherlock rattles off his deductions.

And he will recall the anger, hardened steel in its intensity, that thickens Lestrade’s voice as he speaks with Mycroft, there by the patrol car, its flashing lights a near kaleidoscopic blur, which meld in his fevered mind with the contrasting strands of grey and silver in the DI’s hair.

He had already stood over the body and stared briefly down at the dead man, less than twelve stone of blood and bone which a few hours earlier had been known to Detective Inspector Lestrade as Sgt. Heath, formerly of New Scotland Yard.  Sgt. Wilson Heath, Lestrade’s second dead officer in a month. 

He will _not_ remember placing one insistent hand on Lestrade’s wrist to move him ever so slightly out of the way so he can speak with the Detective Inspector and still keep an eye on what his younger brother is doing. 

“Permit me, Inspector,” Mycroft says as he holds his umbrella aloft over both their heads.  Lestrade grunts his thanks and at Mycroft’s touch, moves a bit to the side of Sherlock’s older brother so the two of them can converse under the same umbrella.

Much later, he will recall the Inspector’s gruff voice stating the obvious, “I hope he’s got something soon. I want to nail this son of a bitch.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply but his words end in a choked-off gasp as a gargantuan force slams his body up against the patrol car, his breath temporarily knocked out of him as a hammer-blow of unknown origin batters his chest and ribcage.  

Utter astonishment and then there is a bit of a waiver in his senses.  His vision telescopes, as the scene around him blurs.  He slowly slides down, down the passenger door of the car until he rests on the filthy ground on outrageously expensive charcoal silk.

And then a debilitating tiredness, the utter futility of trying to keep his eyes open, the knowledge that in the most basic fashion, his body has betrayed him.  His autonomic reflexes go first, followed closely by his vision. 

Mycroft Holmes groans, and his hand grasps at something, someone, anything to ground him in reality.  It’s his left hand because at first, he tries reaching out with his right but it seems to be attached to a limb that no longer obeys his orders. He wonders if he still _has_ a right arm.

 “Easy mate, I’ve got you.”

_Whose voice?  What was happening to him?  Dear Lord, not a stroke. Please. Anything but that.  Where was … anyone?  Sherlock.  Anthea.  His driver?_

And then, _blessed lifeline,_ a hand grasps his left and squeezes.  Desperate for contact, for something to ground him to earth, he squeezes back.   

“High powered rifle,” a grim voice says.

_John Watson. That was John’s voice._

 “Good god!  Donovan!  Where the fuck are you?  We need backup.  A man’s down!  Get a bloody ambulance out here, stat!”

_Who?  Ah, yes.  Detective Inspector Lestrade – Gregory.   Why are his mental processes suddenly rubbish? He’s just been talking to the man._

Slight intrusion as a hand rummages in his trouser pocket, withdraws some slight weight.  _Of course, his mobile.  Good plan. Call his people for him._

“This is Sherlock Holmes.  Yes, your boss’s younger brother.  Yes, _that_ Holmes.  (Good God, Mycroft, where do you get these people?)  Mycroft Holmes has been shot.  Yes, of course, he’s still alive! Why else would I even bother with you imbeciles?

_Take care, dear brother.  I need those people._

And then John’s voice again.  Calm.  Steady.  “Easy, Mycroft.  I’m lying you down now.  And opening your shirt.  Have to see how much damage the bugger did…Sherlock!  For fucks sakes, get over here!  Here.  Press here and don’t stop pressing.”

Lying him down?  Wasn’t he already down?  He experiences a slight change in pressure as his position shifts, then the sharp jolt of pain as an invisible fist slams into his chest, quickly joined by more jolts, stinging threads of electricity as his nerve endings finally catch up with his head and began screaming, vying for his attention.

It isn’t the being shot that confuses Mycroft Holmes.  He’s never been shot before, although he’s certainly seen the aftermath, there in Marseilles, after the horrid mix-up with Jenkins and his two, make that three now, dead spies.  No, he knew how to deal with that pain, thank you.

It is the realization that it is nearly 30 seconds of his life ( _Nearly?  Have his senses been addled as well?)_ before he realises he _has_ been shot.

With a bullet. 

From a gun. 

Not a stroke then.  Thank God. 

His temporary euphoria is blasted to bits when the pain hits.  Doubles.  And redoubles.  Which most definitely answers the question does he still possess a right arm as it begins to burn in agony, as if doused in petrol and set on fire.

He groans aloud again, all concern for appearances shattered by the realisation that he has taken a bullet and down, losing consciousness, losing blood and, possibly, dying.  His nerve endings are awash in heat and flame and oddly enough, cold. 

He shakes uncontrollably.  He is cold.  Freezing.  His limbs begin to convulse.

_Oh. Dear. God._

_How had Watson dealt with this?  How did anyone deal with such agony?_

 “Hang on, Mycroft.  You’re not going anywhere.  Not today."  Gregory Lestrade. 

Some small part of Mycroft’s brain sparks with smug assurance that he can still recall names and link them to voices.  Good.  He will set his teeth and hang on, as the voice suggests.

“Here Lestrade.  Quickly.  He’s in shock.”

_Sherlock’s voice.  But his brother sounds odd, his usual clipped tones lengthened, askew.   What has happened?_

A vague recollection of something warm being tucked around him, and the worst of the cold recedes.  The voices began to fade away.  He can still hear them, barely, as if they come from an adjacent room.  Then his awareness fades, mercifully taking most of the pain and confusion with it.

And he will be forever grateful for the sturdy hand that latches onto his and does not let go.


	2. EAGLES OF THE CAUCASUS

**OooOooO**

Regina Holmes sits by her eldest son’s hospital bed, her head bowed and her remarkable eyes closed.  Sherlock has come and gone after offering faint words of encouragement.  He promises that John will be by soon after he speaks with Mycroft’s medical team.  She nods at her youngest, but once he is gone, she barely remembers what they said to each other. 

It is the surgeon’s words, however, that remain with her, even though she doesn’t understand half of them.

_"Supraspinatus.  Afraid the bullet nicked the clavicle.  Bullet fragmented.  When he was brought in, he was suffering from shock.  Thready pulse.  Unconsciousness.  We have him on a respirator but he needs to wake up soon.  When he does, you can expect him to be lethargic, confused.  There will undoubtedly be muscle weakness.  But with physical therapy, he should recover.  He’s in good hands, Mrs. Holmes. Try not to worry.”_

Regina sighs, opens her eyes and looks at Mycroft’s pale face.  Her grey eyes wander over his form and settle on the bandages that all but cover his shoulder and right arm.  She gently tugs on the sheet and blanket that cover him and briskly addresses her first born.

“Mycroft.  It’s Mummy.  Stop this nonsense immediately.  Your surgeon wishes you to wake up; I wish you to wake up.  Even your brother wishes you to wake up.  Mycroft?”

She glances at the bags of fluid; then watches the numbers that flash and change on the annoying box that keeps beeping and frowns.  To her far right, the door opens and a stranger pokes his head in.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Holmes?”

At the unexpected gravelly tones, Regina glances up.  She courteously stands and stares at the intruder - a tall man with greying hair, in a decidedly rumpled raincoat.

“Yes, I’m Regina Holmes.”

Gregory Lestrade nods briefly, glances toward the bed, then takes two steps into the hospital room.  He carries with him a pile of folded newspapers.

“Mrs. Holmes, my name is Detective Inspector Lestrade.  I was with Mycroft – with your son when he was shot.”

Regina’s eyes widen.  “You’re the police officer who was with him when he – ”

He nods. 

“I’m sorry.  Inspector _Lestrade_ , is it?”

Greg glances from Mycroft to Regina and notes her remarkable resemblance to Sherlock.   He glances at Mycroft again and frowns at the constant whish of the respirator.

“Actually, it’s  _Detective_ Inspector Lestrade.  I was speaking with Mycroft when it happened.”

Regina moves a bit closer to Mycroft and lays one hand on the near rail of his bed.

“And what are you doing here, Inspector?  I would think you would be out, tracking down the imbecile who did this. That’s the correct term, isn’t it?  Tracking?”

Greg looks into her eyes, so like Sherlock’s, and swallows.  There are few men who can humble Gregory Lestrade.  But Regina Holmes has him cowed within two minutes of their meeting.

“Mrs. Holmes, I came by to check on him.  I assure you, we are doing everything within our ability to find the bas – the individual who did this.”

“No need, Detective Inspector.  I can assure you he’s receiving the best treatment.  I intend on moving him to a private medical facility as soon as his surgeon says it’s safe to do so.”

Greg stares at her for a moment, then just nods. Of course, the Holmes family is old money.  He never remembers that with Sherlock, but it has just been brought home to him quite clearly. 

“Mrs. Holmes, I can’t tell you enough how badly I feel about this.”

Regina frowns at the DI, her voice cool and collected. 

“Why?  You had nothing to do with this occurrence.  I do, however, expect you to do your damndest to find the one responsible.”

Greg blinks at the unexpected curse.  He shoves his hands in the pockets of his ancient raincoat and glances at the wounded man in the bed.  He looks back at Mrs. Holmes, only to encounter a look of surprising shrewdness in the fine, grey eyes.

His voice is even gruffer than usual.  “Actually, er, we have every reason to believe the shooter was aiming for someone else. And hit Mycroft in error.  We don’t know this to be true, but we highly suspect it.”

Regina stares back at him.  “And who was that intended target?”

Greg clears his throat again.  “Myself.  That is, Mrs. Holmes, we believe the shooter was aiming for me.  I had just moved aside when it happened.”

Regina’s eyes widen. “This is unconscionable, Inspector.”

Greg nods miserably but says nothing.

There is a moment’s awkward silence.  Then Regina’s hand grips the bed rail until her knuckles turn white.

“Under the circumstances, Detective Inspector, you will excuse me if I ask you to leave my son’s hospital room. “

“Mrs. Holmes, I assure you that my people are doing everything within their power to –”

 “Now, Inspector.  Please.”

 "Yes, Ma’am.  I’ll let you know when we have a firm lead.”

“Actually, Inspector, you can communicate your findings to me through my youngest son, Sherlock.  I believe the two of you are acquainted?  Sherlock will relay any information to me he feels I need to know.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Holmes.  And I’m sorry – truly sorry.”  His tone of voice is apologetic and utterly wrecked.

Greg glances one more time at Mycroft, takes in the machines and the horrid respirator.  He quickly crosses over to place the stack of newspapers on the divan by the window.  He nods once more at Regina Holmes, turns and leaves the room.

Regina stares after him. 

After a moment, she reseats herself by Mycroft’s side and considers what she has just learned.  Finally, she buries her head in her hands.  Her shoulders begin to shake.

**OooOooO**

“Mrs. Holmes?  Regina?”

Regina hurriedly wipes her eyes and glances up as her son-in-law comes in to stand beside her. She smiles wanly.

“Hello, John.”

John Watson moves to her side.  He takes in Mycroft’s appearance and frowns.  Then he pulls up the small folding chair reserved for doctor consultations and sits next to Regina.  He speaks quietly in a warm tone of voice.

“I came by to tell you that I’ve been speaking with Mycroft’s surgeon.  He came through surgery quite well, actually.  They were able to do some repair work on the clavicle.  The bullet grazed it, then partially fragmented.  They think they got it all.”

She puts her head in her hands.  “They think…” she mutters to herself.

She looks up at him. “But, they said hypo –“

“Hypovolemic shock.  Caused by an abrupt drop in blood pressure. That is –”

Regina attempts to be patient with her son-in-law.  “John, my sons did not gain their considerable IQ’s from thin air.  But thank you for reminding me.”

 John sighs.  “Sorry.  But it’s not uncommon in these instances.  Believe me, I’ve seen worse.  Much worse, actually.” 

“In war, John.” 

She leans over and hesitantly touches Mycroft’s left wrist.  John watches as two beautifully manicured fingers trace the fine veins in the back of Mycroft’s hand.  She slips her fingers inside his and they both watch.

Mycroft’s hand does not so much as twitch.

She looks back up at her youngest son’s husband and frowns.

“John, this is London.  Things like this aren’t supposed to happen here.”

John reminds himself that his Mum-in-law knows next to nothing about the work that Mycroft does.  Or Sherlock, for that matter.  Or him.

He leans forward and offers his hand to Regina.  A second’s hesitation and then she places hers in his.  He smiles sadly at her.

“Regina, a lot of things are happening in London at the moment that aren’t supposed to happen.  In this instance, Sherlock, Lestrade and his men are busy tracking down leads.  Someone has been deliberately targeting Lestrade’s people. This is the third such shooting in a month.”

Regina shakes her head and bites her lip.  Her face is nearly bloodless and she looks all of her 66 years.   Gone is the fascinating beauty with Mycroft’s calm demeanor and Sherlock’s chameleon eyes.  Here is the mother sick to death with worry over her firstborn child.

For a few moments, she looks down at her pale hand resting in John’s tan palm.  She stares at the silver circle on his third finger.  He impulsively tightens his fingers over hers and she looks up at him, seemingly grateful for the contact.

“I … this Inspector?”

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard.  He’s the best there is. And a good friend.  Of both your sons.”

She nods and John thinks again how like Sherlock’s her eyes appear.

“Lestrade.  That was the name.  He was here a few minutes ago.”

John looks her in the eye and nods.  “We passed in the hall.”

Regina looks into his sympathetic gaze, then glances at Mycroft again.  He has not moved.  The hated machine continues to breathe for him.

“He said….” Her voice trails off and she sighs suddenly.  She turns to regard John.  “He said that he believed the attack was meant to be against his own person.  That he was the intended target.”

John grimaces.  “Yes, I was afraid he’d come to tell you that.  That’s what Sherlock believes, as well. He and Mycroft were talking and at the critical moment, he moved aside slightly and the shot went astray.” 

John turns his head to observe Mycroft’s pale face.  He traces the IV in the back of his left hand and glances at the stanchion that holds several bags of fluid.  His eyes roam to the numbers that seem to change every few seconds.

He looks back at Regina and tries to smile.  “Actually, he’s doing quite well, considering.  His blood pressure is coming back.  Heart rate is good.  No chance of a lung collapsing.  We got to him in time.”

His tone of voice is certain, knowledgeable.  Regina Holmes may be a distraught mother, but like her two boys, she can appreciate professionalism.

“You’re certain?”

John squeezes her hand slightly again and then releases it.  “I think he has an excellent chance of full recovery, given time and therapy, of course.  And they’ll be taking him off the ventilator by tomorrow, if he continues to improve.  But he has to wake up first.”

She brushes her cool fingers over the back of Mycroft’s hand, gently, a butterfly’s caress.

“So soon?”

“Actually, the sooner the better.  The faster he is off that thing and breathing on his own, the better his chances.  It’s just a precaution at this point.  Standard.  Nothing to be worried about there.”

She nods again in a distracted way.

John stands and Regina stands with him.  The two, nearly of the same height, regard each other.

“John, I…” she shakes her head.  “I fear I was abominably rude to the Inspector before you came in.  I asked him to leave.”

“He’s a big boy.  He’ll get over it.  The important thing is for you to get some rest.  Mycroft is in excellent hands, Regina.  I assure you of that.”

She looks at her son-in-law, then nods briefly.  “I want to stay with him a bit longer.”

John smiles encouragingly.  “As long as you promise to go home soon and rest.  We don’t want to have another patient on our hands.”  He turns as if to go, then hesitates.  He fixes her with his dark blue gaze. 

“Did I mention that he can probably hear everything we’ve been saying?”

Her beautiful eyes widen.  “Truly?  I never really believed that.”

John grins, and the sudden smile transforms his face.  He looks almost boyish.  She sees, not for the first time, what her youngest son loves about his Army doctor. 

“Yup.  Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s heard it all.  Now, whether or not he understands everything he hears, that’s another question entirely.”

John taps the stanchion to the side of Mycroft’s bed with its bags of fluid.  “Pain meds and all this lot can play the devil with your perception.”

She looks at him, and impulsively reaches out.  John takes a step and envelopes both her cool hands in his warm ones.  She attempts a small smile for Sherlock’s husband.

“Thank you, John. And thank you for what you did for Mye after he was  _shot_ .”  She swallows.  “His surgeon said, if you hadn’t been there, Mycroft might have …”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.  She can’t.

“I didn’t do anything.  Glad I was there.” 

He would hug his mother-in-law. but such gestures seem to be reserved for Christmas and other family gatherings.  Frankly, he’s slightly surprised that he stands here, holding her hands.  And that she’s allowed it, thus far.  Sherlock will have something snide to say about it, if he catches the two of them.

John releases her hands.  “Don’t stay too long, okay?” 

She nods distractedly and sits down again by Mycroft’s side.  She sadly searches his face for some sign that he has heard her words to John.

John stops at the door, one hand on the knob.  He turns back to her and she lifts her head to regard the former soldier.

“You might think about cutting Greg – Detective Inspector Lestrade – some slack.  He feels pretty beat up over this.  And it was hardly his fault.  Mycroft wasn’t even supposed to be there.  He came to the crime scene to harass your youngest over some business matter. And he’s in no small amount of trouble for what he did back there.”

Regina frowns.  “I don’t understand, John. What did he do?”

John turns back to face her.  “Regina, I can’t really say, as I’m not supposed to be carrying the damn thing around.  But, well…”  He glances at the sleeping figure in the bed, then mentally shrugs. _What the hell…_

“Regina, I was busy with Mycroft, trying to stabilize him before help arrived.  But Greg, well, he grabbed my gun and fired back in the direction of the shot.  There were only a few of his people there, but word got out.”

She stares at him.  “Your gun, John?”

John nods.  “Highly illegal.  I’m not supposed to have it, let alone use it.  But Greg knew I had it on me and where I keep it.  He was so damned angry that he pulled it and fired it in the direction of the shot.  We think the shooter was in the upper story of the abandoned warehouse.  That’s where Greg’s man was found.  Sgt. Heath it was.  His second dead officer in a month.”

Regina stares at him, momentarily speechless. 

John looks at her steadily.  “So you see, he was pretty darn upset.  Not only had his friend just taken a bullet that might have been meant for Greg, but he was standing just a few feet away from his sergeant’s dead body.  Emotions went a bit crazy at that point.  Sherlock got the gun away from him, while Greg’s people surrounded the building. But no one was found.  Believe me, it was a bit chaotic for a while.  Greg came over to help me with Mycroft.  He kept talking to him while I worked on him. He never left him.”

John watches Regina steadily.  “Just thought I’d mention it.”

He pulls the hospital room door nearly shut behind him.  She hears his quiet footsteps recede down the long hallway.

Regina sits in silence and stares at the closed door.  Suddenly, she rises to her feet and crosses the few feet to the door.  She jerks it open, then rushes down the hall.

“John.  John.  Please.”

John stands at the lift, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.  He turns as his mother-in-law hurries up to him.

“Regina?  Is Mycroft awake?”

She shakes her head, and one grey curl escapes its bond and tumbles around her face.   _Exactly like Sherlock,_ he thinks.

She brushes it back impatiently.

“John, I would like to --  I mean, if you happen to see the Detective Inspector, would you,  _could_ you ask him to come back?  When he’s able, I mean.  From what you and Sherlock have mentioned, he and Mycroft seem to be good acquaintances.  I would like …”

She clears her throat.

John just waits.  He has no intention of making this easy on her.  Truth be told, he feels the entire Holmes family gets off far too easily as it is. 

“Yes?”

She sighs and puts one slim hand on his wrist.  “If you’re right about what you told me earlier…”

“About his hearing what goes on around him?  I think it’s likely.”

“Well, you should know,” she murmurs, not wishing to remind her son-in-law of his own horrid war injury.  “But, if you’re right, it might do Mye some good to hear familiar voices.  That is, if the Inspector has the time.”

John smiles.  “I think he can find the time, Regina.  And he’s downstairs, waiting on me.  We’re going back to the Yard together.  I’ll tell him.”

She nods, suddenly miserable at her former behavior.

“Thank you, John.” 

She starts to say something else, thinks better of it and turns abruptly to hurry back to Mycroft’s room.

John watches her go.  He shakes his head, then pushes the lift button.

**OooOooO**

 

The sound of the hospital door opening and a gravelly voice momentarily startles Regina. She stops reading, mid-sentence.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

She looks up from the newspaper in her hands and blinks at the intruder.  Then hurriedly stands.  Her slim hands smooth out the wrinkles in her linen slacks.

“Inspector.  Thank you for coming.”

Gregory Lestrade stands in the open door.  He looks hesitant, uncertain about his reception.  He clears his throat.

“Mrs. Holmes?  John … Doctor Watson passed along your message.”

He takes one hesitant step into the room.  The two of them stare at each other.  Then both of them attempt to speak at once.

“I do apologize for my earlier – ”

“I’ll be happy to sit with your son for a few – ”

Lestrade winces.  “Sorry, again.  I just wanted to say I’d be happy to sit with Mycroft, if you would like to get some rest.  Maybe something to eat.”

Regina nods, relieved. He’s going to make this easy for her after all.

“Inspector Lestrade,” she begins.

He comes into the room and stands, his hands in the pockets of his rumpled raincoat. 

“Detective Inspector, actually.  And it's Gregory.  Please call me Greg.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”  She glances at Mycroft, notes there has been absolutely no change, then looks back at the DI.  And manages to regain most of her former composure.

“I apologize for my earlier behavior.  I realize you were just looking in on him and I do appreciate the gesture.  I wanted you to know that.”

Greg shrugs.  “Not a problem.  He’d do the same.”

He glances at the pile of papers he left earlier and raises one bushy eyebrow.

“Were you reading to him?”

Regina nods.  “Yes.  John, that is, Doctor Watson, felt it might do him good.” 

She regards Mycroft’s face and frowns at the sound of the annoying pump that currently breathes for him.  “John said he might be able to hear us.  And that hearing the sound of familiar voices might help him regain consciousness.”

Greg takes his hands out of his pockets.  He holds out one large hand.  “May I?”

Regina hands him the paper she still holds.    Greg glances at it.  The Times.   _Of course._

He takes a deep breath.

“Actually, if you want him to wake up, you probably need to read him the sports pages.”

Regina frowns.  “I had no idea Mycroft follows sports.”

Greg shakes his head.  “He doesn’t. That’s just it.  Football, cricket matches, whatever, it irritates the hell out of him.  Makes him impatient.” 

He glances at the folded paper in his hand, then hands it back to her.

“That’s my theory, anyway.  For what it’s worth.”

He plunges his hands back in the pockets of his ancient raincoat.  The two of them regard each other warily for a moment.

Admitting defeat, Regina sighs.  “Detective Inspector Lestrade, I would be more than grateful if you could sit with Mye for a while.  And if you feel like reading to him, anything at this point might help.”

He smiles, and she holds her breath as ten years drop away from his face. _Oh.  Oh, Mycroft._

“Be happy to, Mrs. Holmes.”

He stands courteously to the side as she retrieves her purse and coat.  At the door, Regina hesitates, and glances back at Mycroft’s quite form.

She looks at the DI.  “If there’s any change – ”

He nods immediately.  “Trust me, we’ll find you immediately.”

She nods again, relieved.  And doesn’t even bother to ask about the “we” he refers to.

“All right then.  I could use a cup of tea.”

“Lots of luck finding anything here that resembles tea,” he says.  “There’s a pretty decent place on the corner.  I can go for you, if you’d like.”

She shakes her head.  “No.  Please stay.  I can use the fresh air.”  She hesitates, as if to say something else, then just pulls the door quietly shut behind her.

Greg glances at the stack of papers he brought in earlier.

He roots through them, grabs The Daily Telegraph from the pile, then seats himself in the chair Regina Holmes has just vacated.  He pulls reading glasses from an inner pocket of his coat.  Greg looks searchingly at Mycroft’s face, then clears his throat loudly.

“Okay, you annoying bastard.  If this is the way you want to play it, we’ll start with the Tennis matches.  I know how you hate ‘em.”

He determinedly begins to read the latest scores out loud.

 


	3. EAGLES OF THE CAUCASUS

**OooOooO**

Sherlock’s hands make invisible patterns in the air, as he agitatedly paces around the crime scene, tracing and retracing the site of Mycroft’s shooting earlier that day. Sgt. Wilson Heath’s body has long since been removed to Bart’s morgue, where it awaits the attentions of Molly Hooper.  What evidence can be found has been bagged, labeled and removed. It isn’t much. 

Most of the Yarders have long gone.  Only two officers remain to guard the scene, while the world’s only consulting detective marches back and forth and mutters to himself. John follows dutifully and takes notes in his shorthand that no one can read but him.

When the detective pauses for breath and then stops talking completely, John glances up.  And surprises an unfocused look on his husband’s face.  Sherlock stares at nothing.

“What is it?”

“Mycroft.  It’s just that … Mummy can’t … after losing our Father and now –”

John flips the tiny notepad shut and drops it in the pocket of his jacket.

“He’ll be fine, Sherlock.  Excellent chance of full recovery, remember?”

Sherlock snaps at John.   “I’m glad you’re so optimistic, Doctor Watson.  But I need to do more than just spout platitudes.”

John’s eyes narrow at the jarring tone of voice and he crosses his arms over his chest.  “I may be at your beck and call, Sherlock Holmes, but I am still a trained medical doctor.  I spoke with your brother’s surgeon earlier and I’m telling you that Mycroft will recover, given time and the necessary physical therapy.”

There is a short silence, while Sherlock tries to out-stare his husband.  Pale grey eyes stare into dark blue ones.  After a moment, he gives it up as a lost cause.  He turns back to look around at the crime scene. His glance takes in the warehouse, a few hundred feet away, and John’s heart sinks.  Along with half of Lestrade’s people, they have been all over it, several times.  They found nothing.  Whoever the shooter is, he ( _or she,_ John privately amends, _equal opportunity_ _assassin_ ) is a professional. 

It’s getting dark and John can’t bear the thought that the detective might insist they look through it again.  He’s missed two meals and he desperately wants his tea.

Hours earlier, Sherlock discovered one small area along the roof edge that may – or may not – have been where a palm was splayed out for balance.  No prints were found.  Just the one spot.  But the detective bent over and examined it with his magnifier for several long minutes, before standing in a huff and shaking his dark curls in frustration.

Sherlock shrugs.  “I’ve seen all this has to offer.  Let’s go back to the Yard and have a look at those photos.”

“You’ve looked at them.”  John’s voice betrays his growing irritation.  And extreme tiredness.  It has been a very long day.

Sherlock frowns.  “I might have missed something.  It’s worth a second look.”

John’s eyes widen.  Sherlock … admitting he might have missed something?  Good God, he must be really worried about his brother. He watches as the detective, distracted, runs a hand through his curls.

The doctor decides to give his maddening spouse the benefit of the doubt and pulls out his mobile.

“Fine.  One taxi, coming up.”

John thumbs a button on his phone, while Sherlock stands impatiently and stares around, hands in the pockets of his coat. 

Both men avoid looking at the darkened bloodstains on the concrete, a few feet away. 

Mycroft’s blood.

**OooOooO**

He never really awakens during the worst of it. Instead, he drifts in and out of awareness, as if his mental … and emotional … faculties are disconnected from the physical.

He feels no pain.  Well, barely.  For this, he is extremely grateful.

His tired mind replays disjointed phrases from far away that he hardly cognises.

_Surgery?_

Has that already occurred?  And if so, how is he not aware of this fact?

He thinks he hears John Watson’s voice twice, but he has no idea what his brother-in-law is actually saying.  The tone sounds comforting, though.

_Brain damage?  No.  No.  I’ve been shot.  John said so.  And he should know._

His world has become shades of grey and black, with slight tinges of light, which seem to shoot thru his brain with increasing regularity.

Words he doesn’t understand at the time, nevertheless stay with him.

“Hit the clavicle, but not as bad as it could have been.”   _John’s voice_ .

“Pretty clean shot, considering.”

He doesn’t recognize this voice.

“Sheer accident.”   _John again._   “It was meant to be a killing shot.  Lestrade moved.”

He floats in near weightlessness, as if his body skims a vast body of water, his fingers just touching its placid surface.  Why do people use the term “swimming” when they mean the attempt to regain consciousness?  He isn’t swimming.

Drowning, more likely.

“Come on, Mr. Holmes.  Breathe.”

He is breathing, isn’t he?  How can he not be breathing?  It’s a simple enough process.  Something no one thinks about until the ability to do so becomes impaired. 

Time has become nebulous.  He is no longer aware of its passing.

**OooOooO**

“Seriously, Mycroft?  Are you going to continue to play out this melodrama?”

And then the touch of long, cool fingers against his.  Sherlock’s.  His brother is here.

The slight change in air pressure as someone bends over him.  He hears his brother’s baritone, subdued.  For once.

“Listen, Mye.  It’s me.  You’re going to be okay.  I – we just need you to do a better job of breathing.   And wake up soon, you git.  If you don’t care about yourself, then think of our Mother.  She can’t be put through this again.  By the way, I’m going to find this bastard.  If Anderson hasn’t completely contaminated the crime scene.  I promise you that.”

Then … nothing.  Just heaviness of limbs.  Something over his nose and mouth, something which seems to magnify the rush of air into his lungs.   _Annoying._   Something obstructing his throat muscles and his nasal passages.   _Extremely annoying._

_I can’t do this.  I cannot do this._

When did his eyelids become so heavy?

_Wait!  The Korean delegation.  The scheduled visit.  Good God, where are his people?  Anthea?  Thompson, his driver?  Where are his men?_

“Mycroft?  Son?”

_Oh dear God, who let their Mother in here?_ Wherever  _here_ is?

And then the sound of quiet weeping.  Mummy?  Mummy doesn’t cry.  That one time, when Father…but that doesn’t bear thinking about. 

 

**OooOooO**

Sherlock is being a dick.

 _Even more so than usual,_ John thinks. 

The detective has become increasingly irritated with all and sundry, himself included.

John recognises why this is so; the git is obviously concerned about his brother’s condition.  John knows this, the same way he knows why Sherlock refuses to publicly or privately acknowledge his concern over Mycroft’s condition.  Accordingly, the former soldier tries to be understanding and even comforting.

Up to a point.

At home at Baker Street, John sits in his chair and watches his spouse’s long legs eat up the carpet.  He has the beginnings of a spectacular headache and riding herd on the world’s only hyperactive consulting child is not making things any better.  He, too, is concerned for his brother-in-law, but he knows Mycroft is in good hands.  There are long days ahead, but the elder Holmes brother is as stubborn as the younger.  Even more so, if that is even possible.  John has no doubts on that score.

He’s not so certain about his own nerves, however, after enduring hours of his husband raving like a lunatic at the Yarders (“Truly, Donovan?  You _believe_ the shot came from the upper level of the warehouse?  Try the roof, you idiot!  That is the only way the shooter could have achieved the necessary angle!”), then listening to Sherlock rage at the mind-numbing slowness of the Forensics department (“John, you’d think they could get necessary ballistics back on that bullet faster than this.  Our children will be in University before I have concrete evidence!”)

“Sherlock, they’re working as fast as they …. Wait.  _Our_ children … what!?”

“We are married now, John.  Do try to keep up.”

Finally, after sitting through one truly spectacular twenty-five minute rant, during which Sherlock gives John a run for his money in the inventive cursing department, the former soldier calls a halt, after amending his first opinion to “Sherlock is being a right, _royal_ Dick.”

“Sherlock, stop pacing and sit down.”

The detective whirls on the Army doctor and narrows his eyes.  “John, you of all people, cannot expect me to just sit here and do nothing, while those idiotic, boneheaded, fumble-fingered _cretins_ have their way with the evidence from the crime scene.”

He marches up to the mantelpiece, plucks the skull from its place and begins to fiddle with it.

John sighs, puts down his paper and stands to cross the short distance to his suffering spouse. At the touch of his soldier’s hand on his arm, Sherlock turns with his back to the fireplace, still tossing the skull back and forth in his nimble fingers.  His mercuric eyes narrow in frustration.

“Give me that.”  John pries Sherlock’s fingers off the skull, replaces it on the mantel, then puts a hand on the detective’s elbow and more or less herds him toward his chair.  Sherlock slumps down with a grunt and immediately starts tapping his fingers on his elegantly-clad thighs.  He glares at John, who takes his seat opposite him.

“What’s taking Lestrade so long?”

John shakes his head.  “Sherlock, if you were paying attention, you’d know that everyone is doing what they can to …”

“Not true, John.  I haven’t heard from Lestrade in hours.  What in bloody hell is he doing and more importantly, what are his mutton-headed people doing?  Mycroft was shot hours ago. We should have the perpetrator in custody by now.”  His fingers stop their insistent drumming and he begins to scratch at the armrests in a manner guaranteed to irritate his mate.

John watches the long fingers scar the soft leather for a minute, then clears his throat.

“As I said, Sherlock, if you were paying attention, you would know that Lestrade is at the hospital.  He’s been there, along with your Mum, at your brother’s bedside.  They’ve both been there for several hours.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his hands stop their insistent movement.  He stares at John Watson-Holmes.  “Mycroft is still unconscious, John. I understand our mother’s insistence on remaining in attendance.  Sentiment.  Obvious.  But why is Lestrade wasting his time, when he could be directing his department to get off their bloody arses and be useful for a change!”

John stares at his husband in mild disbelief.

“Sherlock, it can’t have escaped your notice that your brother and Lestrade … Mycroft and Greg … have been spending a great deal of time together lately?”

Sherlock frowns.  “Define ‘great deal of time’ John.  And just what in bloody hell are you getting at?”

He tilts his head and a dark curl falls over one eyebrow. John resists the urge to cross to him and brush it back.

“Lestrade needs to leave the bedside manner to my mother, John.  Those morons he’s left to do his job are mucking it up.”

Abruptly, John stands.  “Good God!  And you say that I’m thick.”

He turns his back on Sherlock and walks into their kitchen.  He fills the kettle, and then pushes the button.  He busies himself with cups, milk, teabags.  Finally, John leans over and grips the edge of the table.  He stares down at the scarred surface.

“Right,” he mutters.

John Watson-Holmes straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and turns to face his husband. 

Sherlock’s dark brows come together and his eyes narrow.  He takes in his soldier’s body language, his exasperated tone of voice, the deep sigh as John crosses his arms.

“John? Just what have you – seen – that I haven’t?  _And how is that even possible?_ the detective thinks.

“Sherlock,” John says hesitantly.  “Look.  Here’s the thing. I kind of promised Greg I wouldn’t say anything, not until they were both ready.  But …”

Sherlock’s hands push against the armrests and he comes to his feet.  “John Watson-Holmes, don’t even finish that sentence.”

John nods.  “Mycroft and Greg.  They’ve been seeing each other…on and off for tea, the occasional drink … for quite a while.”

“Impossible.  I would have noticed.”

“Yeah, well, cheers to that.  Maybe you didn’t want to notice, Sherlock,” John says gently.

Both men look at each other.  Sherlock’s fists clench by his side.  He clears his throat.

When he finally speaks, his tone is mildly accusing.

“John, there are uncounted mental images I can do without.  This is one of them.”

The kettle sings. 

Neither man moves.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft opens his eyes hesitantly, but hurriedly squints them shut at the sudden glare that stabs at his brain like ice-blue searchlights. He fights the urge to reach up and shove the oxygen mask off his nose and mouth.

_Obvious._

Muffled footsteps.  A click.  The harsh glare is gone and some dim illumination remains, off to one side.  He sighs.  Someone is paying attention then.

He is oddly grateful for the gift of cool darkness against his eyelids. But he doesn’t open his eyes again.  Not yet.  Best give it a bit before the next attempt. 

He is more grateful for the quick, near hesitant touch against his unencumbered hand.

It is his right hand.  Of course it is; his left is being used as a pin cushion for what he assumes is an IV port.  He dimly remembers the flare of pain along his right arm and hand.  But nothing hurts now.  

And his sense of touch appears to be back. 

_Most excellent._

The gesture is a mere brush of fingers, skin upon skin.  Quick.  Soothing. Meant to reassure and to let the patient know ( _odd that, him being the patient_ ) that he is not alone.  The gesture quickly made and just as quickly over.    He frowns as his mind tries to fill in the blanks.  His thoughts are usually orderly, exact, but they appear slowed by whatever is drip, dripping into his left hand. 

The sense memory of one … no, two slightly calloused fingers as they stroke over the skin of his right hand confuse him.  But just for a moment.  _Calloused?_   Of course, the DI does handle a gun, occasionally, although UK law dictates when and under which circumstances.  But there is always target practice and the fact that Gregory does practice, regularly, is all there … in the barely perceptible drag of rough fingertips against his skin. 

How he knows this is Lestrade?  Easy. This is not Sherlock.  His brother would never offer comfort in such a fashion.  And of course, this is not John’s hand.  John might squeeze a shoulder, but he would never trail a finger or fingers across the back of his brother-in-law’s hand.  Not like this.  And John Watson is left-handed, although he quite frequently shoots with his right.  These are the fingers of a right-handed male.

Mycroft’s mind fills in the blanks, as his eyes remain stubbornly closed over tired lids.

“I’m here, Mycroft,” the rough and tumble voice huffs out in the quiet of his hospital room. 

Gregory then.  The DI is still in attendance.

Mycroft is not alone.

The man who is the British Government finds this fact oddly comforting.


	4. EAGLES OF THE CAUCASUS

**OooOooO**

 

“Sherlock.”

Absorbed in the view through the twin eyepieces, the detective does not look up from his microscope.

“Not now, John.  I’m examining trace evidence that Lestrade’s people finally sent over.”

“It’s important.”

“I said not now.”  He concentrates on the slide currently clipped to the stage.

John holds his husband’s mobile in his outstretched hand and stands his ground.

“It’s your mother, you arse.  Mycroft’s awake.”

Pale grey eyes stare into blue.

As he hands the phone over, John nearly misses the exasperated mutter.   “I knew it was too good to last.”

“Sherlock!”

**OooOooO**

Mycroft registers he is fully awake, at last.  He is breathing on his own.  Excellent.   _Always a good way to begin the day._   And he is in hospital.   _Only to be expected_ , he supposes.

And up until a few minutes earlier, he was quite certain that someone else was in attendance.  Someone with a gruff voice and rough fingers.  Someone whose warm presence reassured him, at best.   _As for the voice -- did he dream that?  Did Gregory sit by his side and read him – good God – the football scores?_

Now there is only his mother.  Again, to be expected.  But that does not keep her presence from being mildly annoying. 

“Son, it’s Mummy.  You opened your eyes earlier.  Please do so again.”

Well, if that is all that is needed to make her happy …

Mycroft Holmes opens his eyes fully for the second since he was shot. This time, he keeps them open.  And stares up into Regina Holmes’ pale grey gaze.

“Mother,” he croaks.  Startled by his voice, hoarse from disuse, he attempts to clear his throat.  And meets with the reality of a scratched esophagus.  He takes a deep breath and attempts to swallow.

“No.  Don’t talk.  Not yet.  Here.” 

A straw finds its way into his mouth and he gratefully drinks cool water. 

And bloody hell, but it hurts to swallow.

“Your doctor said to expect some discomfort from the breathing tube, both in your throat and your nasal passages.”

Mycroft nods, a nearly imperceptible movement, as he begins to take stock of his physical situation.  Feet, legs, torso all check out, with the exception of a rather deep ache in the middle of his chest.  He moves his awareness to his left side:  arm and shoulder appear functional, if somewhat encumbered with an IV port, which stings when he shifts his left hand. 

When he gets to his right arm and shoulder, his eyes widen. Restraints pull at his shoulder, chest and back muscles.  Bandages.  Lots of them and it hurts to move his chin downward.  

“No, son.  Don’t try to move round too much.  Wait until your surgeon gets here.  It won’t be long.”

He resorts to a soft whisper.  “Very well.”  He shuts his eyes briefly, then reopens them.  His mother shifts back into his field of vision, so he does not have to turn his head.

His senses begin to sort themselves out, at the same time his thoughts come online.  First things first.

“How long?”

Regina grimaces at her son’s hoarse tones.  “You’re coming up on 30 hours; all of those since your surgery.  It’s Wednesday evening. You were … shot … yesterday morning.”

Of course.  Tuesday.  He was wearing his Tuesday suit and tie.

He considers this information; then files it away under  _Need to Know_ .  He happily accepts a bit more water and is pleased that swallowing seems easier.

“Prognosis?”

His mother’s tone is relieved.  “Very good.  And that’s both your surgeon’s opinion and John’s.

_John Watson-Holmes.  Doctor and former Army Captain.  Now his brother-in-law._    His memories are intact then.  If John said he would be all right, that is good news indeed.  Excellent.

Then his heart begins to race.

_Anthea.  Meetings.  His driver.  He was speaking with Gregory.  Something threw him against the patrol car.  That is when the bullet impacted._

“Mycroft?  Your heart monitor just increased!  Mycroft?”

He sighs.  And takes a slow, deep breath.   _Calm down.  Or Mummy will have every cardiologist in the British Isles in here._

“I’m fine, Mother,” he whispers.

“Don’t scare me like that again, son,” she asks.

He hums and shuts his eyes.  Her cool fingers touch his right hand.  He tries to close his fingers over hers.  Tries.  Fails.  His hand will only close so far.

Mycroft dismisses this as unimportant.  What is of vital importance, however, is … the Korean delegation.  The visiting diplomats.  His report.

Dear. God.

He feels slightly  _off_ and attributes it to pain medication.  Damn it, he needs to be clear-headed.  What in bloody hell does he do now?  What happened? 

And where is Anthea?  He needs to be filled in.  He needs  _to know._

And for that matter, where is his maddening arse of a brother? 

_Tell me I rate at least an “8” and he’s investigating._

“Sherlock?”

She gives him some more water. _Ambrosia._

 “Your brother is hunting the monster responsible for your injuries.” 

“Clues?”

She tilts her head as she thinks.  With a pang, Mycroft notices the lines of worry that crease her forehead.  And she is abnormally pale.   “I have no earthly idea, Mycroft.  But Sherlock will sort it, with the help of that clever Detective Inspector.”

“Greg? He was here earlier, wasn’t he?” 

There is a moment’s silence. Too late, he realises his error.

The Holmes boys do not come about their lightening intuition from their father.  Far from it.  Regina Holmes’ pauses as she sets the drinking glass down on the small table.  She frowns down at Mycroft.

“Greg?  I did not realise you and the Detective Inspector were that close, Mycroft.”

He sighs.  And shuts his weary eyes.

_Fucking.  Hell._

**OooOooO**

Sherlock yanks the second slide from the stage and hurls it into the sink.  The sound of tinkling glass does nothing for his mood.

Seated on their sofa, John glances up from his paper.  “Not going well?”

“Yes, thanks for noticing, John. Your powers of observation remain intact.”  He runs one pale hand through his dark curls. 

Sherlock stands abruptly and walks into their living area to the far window.  He pulls back the curtain and stares down at the busy street below.

“I’m missing something,” the detective mutters.  “Something obvious.”

John tosses the paper down.  He looks down at his clasped hands and takes a breath to release the agitation at his husband’s sarcastic words.  It’s just Sherlock, being … who he is. He regards the slim figure that stands by the window, silhouetted in the yellow glow from the street lamps below.

“How can I help?”

The detective just shakes his head.  After a minute, he lets the curtain fall and begins to pace around their living area.  Finally, with a snort of disgust, he goes back to his microscope, pulls up his stool, and begins again.

John bends to pick up his newspaper and deliberately folds it over, so the story on page one is hidden from view.

 

**Government worker injured by apparent sniper fire.  Yard investigates.**

 

**Mycroft Holmes, elder brother of the well-known consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, was gravely injured in what has been described as an assassination attempt gone wrong.**

 

John raises one eyebrow.  As if Greg needed any reason to feel worse.  He tosses the paper back on the floor and watches his husband across the room.

**OooOooO**

Dr. Tukura, Mycroft’s surgeon, drops by to assure Mycroft and Regina, who has not left his side since he has opened his eyes. that the surgery went very well, indeed.  His brown eyes crinkle in his dark face as he speaks.  ( _Nigerian ancestry_ , Mycroft thinks _, on his mother’s_ _side_ .  _Originally educated at_ _Oxford, MRCS, 12 years an orthopedic surgeon, elected to remain  surgeon rather than go for consultancy._ _Married, three, no make that three and one_ _half children, with one on the way._ )

Dr. Tukura tells Mycroft how pleased he is with his progress and the fact he is now off the ventilator.  He tells Regina how very happy he is to see her eldest sitting up and taking nourishment (this after Mycroft keeps down one cup of tea, tepid, and one-half cup of broth, beef.)  And he tells all and sundry that he expects the elder Holmes brother to make a full recovery … given time and the correct physical therapy.

In the meantime, he cautions Mycroft to listen to his doctors, respect his nurses, and obey his physical therapist.  He pats Mycroft on his good shoulder, nods at Regina and is gone.

Mycroft sleeps.  Mummy keeps watch. 

His GP is next.  Dr. Fields visits, assures Mycroft – and Regina, still in attendance -- that the surgery went very well.  And that the elder Holmes can expect a more or less complete recovery, with a few reservations, concerning regaining the total use of his right arm and shoulder.  But that’s what physical therapy is for and he’s available any time the Holmes’s feel the need to talk.  Fields pats Regina on the shoulder, nods at Mycroft and leaves.

Mycroft tries to sleep.  But he’s restless.  His thoughts seem to go round and round and he utterly despises the pain medication that keeps his mind from firing in its usual orderly precision.

Mummy observes him for a few minutes, then goes for a walk. She comes back shortly with two cups of Earl Grey.  And raises an eyebrow to see John Watson sitting next to Mycroft, who has finally fallen asleep. She hands the second cup to John, who moves to the plastic visitor’s chair, so she can stay by the injured man’s side.

He nods his thanks. “Cheers, Regina.”

The two sit in companionable silence and drink their tea. When Mummy quietly inquires as to why Sherlock isn’t visiting his brother, John hems and haws and finally reveals that the younger Holmes is going over the crime scene, again, with DI Lestrade.  He’ll come by when Mycroft is feeling more up to having visitors.

He lies.

Sherlock’s exact response, when John requests that he accompany him to hospital to visit his brother, is succinct.  “The bloody arse is doing fine.  What in hell does he need me around for? Besides, I said I’d get the bastard and that is exactly what I intend to do.”  

He waves John away and goes back to his microscope.

John cannot remember a time that Sherlock has used so many curse words in one breath.  In fact, the detective seldom curses at all.  He stares at his husband’s curly head thoughtfully.  And then changes his clothes and snags a cab to the hospital.  He doubts that Sherlock notices when he leaves the flat.

Doubtless, his arse of a husband will carry on speaking to him while he is away.  

John says none of this to his mother-in-law.  But she reads between the lines and a slight smile turns up her remarkable lips.  Outwardly, she just nods.  She and John finish their tea.  John leaves, after promising to look in again the next day.

Mycroft stirs, mumbles “John.”  And goes back to sleep. 

The third day, it begins.

Mycroft finally convinces Regina to go home and rest, after assuring her that he is in excellent hands.

His mother stands as her son’s PA enters the room.  The two women regard each other.  Apparently, Regina likes what she sees, as she greets Anthea cordially, then nods at her son and leaves.

Anthea comes in, lays her things down and quietly closes the door.  She turns to smile at Mycroft.  He smiles back. At last.  He can get some work done.

“Your doctors will be in shortly,” she assures him. 

“Marvelous,” he says.  But the two of them grin at each other.

They quickly develop a system.

Mycroft sits up in bed, his back supported against three of the small hospital pillows, his legs covered over with the worn cotton sheets and soft blankets.  His laptop sits propped open on a fourth pillow in his lap.  The various bags on the stanchion next to him have been reduced to two.  He feels better than he’s felt in days and he’s anxious to get some work done.

His doctors agree to allow it, provided he pace himself and frequently stop to rest.  Anthea assures them all she will make certain Mr. Holmes behaves himself.  Mycroft raises one eyebrow at her speech, but smiles slightly when he notes she sends all his medical personnel packing with firm efficiency.

When the two of them are finally alone, Mycroft turns to Anthea.

"Now, my dear?”

She smiles.  “Now.”

Anthea fills him in on department activities and the current whereabouts of each of his agents.  Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief when she informs him the Korean delegation was most concerned over his welfare, asked to be kept informed of his progress and all events of state, as it were, have been postponed.

His PA sits in a rather comfortable chair by his bedside, (brought in at her request by Mycroft’s driver, after she frankly sneers at the plastic chair the hospital provides.)  She balances her I Pad in her lap and her beautifully manicured nails fly over the keys as he dictates.  From time to time, Mycroft pauses, both to gather his thoughts and to give his voice a rest.

When his normally cultured tones become hoarse, she sets her work down and leans over to offer him water.  After the first 90 minutes, they stop and she holds a small cup of hot tea to his lips.  His right hand still won’t close around objects and his left is encumbered with the IV.  Mycroft nods his thanks.  Then they resume.

For the most part, they are left alone.  She can’t do a thing, however, about the nurses who come in for scheduled vitals checks, a necessary activity.  Instead, she uses the time to swap her tablet for her Blackberry and get caught up on her dispatches.  

After four hours of work, Anthea calls a halt to the first day’s activities.

“My dear, I believe I can continue for a while longer.  I really need to review the Syrian activities and –“

“Mycroft. You need rest.  Food.  And more sleep.  In that order.”  Her beautiful voice is firm.  She notes the pain lines around his eyes, new lines that were not there a few days earlier.  She tries not to dwell on the unfamiliar tightness around his mouth.

He stops speaking, momentarily perplexed.  She seldom calls him by his first name and it never fails to stop him in his tracks.  He suspects she keeps it in reserve for that very purpose. 

At that moment, the nurse comes in with his pain meds and Anthea nods.  “Right.   I’m off.  I need to get these dispatches done and send out your correspondence.  And you, Sir, need your rest.”

She gathers up her supplies, slips everything into a neat carryall she brings with her and turns to peruse his hospital room, as if to check all is in order.  She nods at the cleanliness of the private room, notes he has everything he needs, and bends over to slightly tug his sheet around him.  She places his mobile within reach, but frowns at it as she does so.

“Please rest, Sir.  I’ll be back in the morning.” 

Then she stands and waits while the nurse administers to her patient.  Mycroft dutifully takes his pain meds, drinks the water the nurse offers, and obediently sits quietly while she checks his bandages and blood pressure.  When the nurse smiles at both of them and leaves, after assuring her patient that a meal is on its way, Anthea crosses to the door. 

She remembers something and turns; her beautiful eyes search out his.  “Shift change is at seven,” she says quietly.

He nods his understanding.  It has not escaped his notice that one of his more senior agents stands guard at his door. The agent will be relieved at the same time the nursing staff changes shifts.   _Makes sense,_ he thinks.  Although a bloody waste of time and a good agent.

“I’m not certain that the round-the-clock surveillance is entirely necessary,” he begins.

She just shakes her head and the overhead lights bring out the mahogany tints in her hair.  “You know, as well as I, that until your brother and the police find the shooter, you are still at risk.”

They both look at each other.  But Mycroft learned a long time back, there are two people in his life that he cannot out-stubborn:  his PA -- and John Watson.  He makes a mental note to add Gregory Lestrade to that list.

It is the late afternoon of the same day.  Anthea has long since left.  He has eaten very little of his hospital lunch.  First, he finds it aggravatingly difficult to use his left hand to eat.  Second, the food?  Honestly, how many years of service to Queen and Country and this _slop_ is the best they can do?  He makes a mental note to ask Mummy to bring more palatable food that evening. 

His door opens.  The agent in charge pokes his head in.

“Sir, it’s an officer from the Yard.  About the shooting.  Credentials check out.”

Mycroft nods, fully expecting Gregory Lestrade.

He’s nonplussed when Sgt. Sally Donovan walks in, accompanied by another police officer he does not recognise. 

“Mr. Holmes, I’m Sgt. Donovan and this is Officer Barclay.  I’m here to get a statement from you regarding Tuesday’s shooting.”

Mycroft frowns.  He hesitates, not exactly certain why Gregory has sent this – person – instead of coming himself.  But he nods and cordially invites her to sit.  He momentarily thinks about sitting on the edge of his bed, but his bandages and IV work to curtail his movement.

“Very well, Sgt.  Please forgive my dress.  Or lack thereof.”

She just nods and seats herself in a chair.  The second officer, Barclay, stands at the foot of the bed and just listens.  From time to time, he glances around the room, but his eyes always come back to rest on Mycroft. 

For his part, Mycroft ignores this second underling, and puts his attention on Donovan.  As her questions continue and he does the best with them, he becomes more and more irritated with Gregory.  And with this Donovan person.

She has just begun to wind down, when there is a knock at his door and his agent, Wilkins, pokes his head in again.

“Sorry, Sir, but there’s a person from the press here and—“

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft says.  

Wilkins nods and shuts the door again. The sound of raised voices can be heard immediately outside his door.  There comes a slight altercation and what Mycroft can only assume is the sound of a very firm fist impacting with a rather soft chin.  A thud hits the door.  Donovan swears.  She nods at PC Barclay, who strides to the door and yanks it open.

“Now what’s all this?” he commands. He steps out into the corridor and all three men begin to talk at once. The door shuts behind him.

Mycroft inwardly groans and revises his opinion of his private room and wonders if Mummy can move him to the Holmes estate immediately.  Better yet, he’s more than ready to go home.  He wonders what the odds are of that happening before the week is out. 

Donovan stands up, flips her notepad closed, then hesitates.  Mycroft raises one dark eyebrow.  He is more than used to dealing with subordinates and this Sgt. Donovan is no exception.

“You’re – the frea—you’re the brother of Sherlock Holmes?”

Before Mycroft can respond, his bedside phone rings and the unfamiliar sound startles him. He stares at the infernal machine and wonders what the protocol is here.  The phone rings again and he reaches out for it, just as it stops ringing.

At the same time, a slight buzzing sounds from his lap and he lifts his mobile up to look at the screen.  Anthea.  And she has questions about a diplomatic report she is sending out on his behalf.

He looks pointedly at Donovan. 

“Sgt?  Can this discussion wait until a later date?  And yes, of course, Sherlock is my younger brother.  I thought that fact was well known.  Although, I have no idea how this information is germane to the situation.”

“Actually, Mr. Holmes, I need to know what –“

His agent pokes his head in the door again.  At the same time, he moves so Officer Barclay can re-enter the room to stand to the side of his bed.

Mycroft’s head begins to swim.

“What is it, Wilkins?”

“Sir, I’m sorry.  But a personage from Parliament has—”

“Wilkins?”

His agent comes into the room.  His tall form effectively blocks off the person who stands behind him.  Mycroft hears the huff of exasperation and wonders who in bloody hell is coming at him now.

“Yes, Sir?”

“I would really appreciate it if you would keep any and all visitors out of this room.  Except for my mother, of course, and my medical personnel.”

“Of course, Sir.  But I think you should know that—”

“That is an order, Wilkins.”

“Yes sir.”

Mycroft turns to Sally.  “Sgt?  Are we done here?”

She flips her pad to read her last notes, then nods her curly head.  “Nearly, Mr. Holmes.  I just wanted to ask about your brother and what amounts to a disturbance of the crime scene –”

“I assure you, Sgt., my brother’s actions are not –“

The voice from the corridor is adamant.

“I’ll have you know that I am acting on behalf of a Member of Parliament and I must get in to speak with Mr. Holmes.  I’m afraid the situation is rather urgent.”

And Wilkins’ voice. “I’m afraid not, Sir.  Any and all visitors are to be turned away.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

Mycroft shuts his eyes and groans. Emberley.  Alexander Emberley.  Member of Parliament, his arse.  Emberley is PA to a member of the opposition Party.  Wonderful.  Politics has entered the three-ring circus of his hospital room.  He wonders where his nurses are.  Is everyone on break? 

His mobile buzzes again and he realizes he forgot to call Anthea.  He lifts the phone to glance at the screen.  His steel blue eyes narrow.

**Call me at once.  I know your**

**ability to text is compromised.**

**I have questions.**

**SH**

 

He ignores his brother’s impatient text and drops his mobile back into his lap. 

He tries to put his attention back on Sgt. Donovan, but the pain in his shoulder escalates and makes it difficult for him to concentrate.

Donovan shifts her feet impatiently.  “Mr. Holmes, if I can just ask why your brother insists on poking his head in where –“

Wilkins, again.

“I must ask you to leave, Sir.  Mr. Holmes requires his rest.”

“Bloody hell, young man.  If you think you can order me out of this hospital, when I know full well that Mycroft Holmes is awake and aware, you’ve got another think coming.”

Donovan looks over at Barclay.  “Will you see who’s making that infernal racket and escort the gentleman in question out of this hospital?”

Barclay nods.  “Right, Sgt.”  He opens the door. 

Huge mistake.

A shortish man with bushy ginger hair and an equally ginger mustache rushes into the room, followed immediately by Mycroft’s agent, Wilkins.  Officer Barclay nearly collides with the intruder, who huffs when he sees Mycroft sitting up in bed.

“Holmes!   I’ve been trying to reach you by phone.  Why in devil didn’t you pick up?  We have a few things to discuss before this Korean matter comes to a head.”

Donovan raises her voice.  “Sir, I have to ask you to leave this hospital room.”

Mycroft turns his head from the vision of the blustery man who stands at the foot of his bed, his hands clenched over the railings, to Donovan, then back to his agent, Wilkins, whose eyes have narrowed.  Wilkins places one large hand on ginger’s shoulder.  “Sir. You are coming with me.  Now.”

Ginger brushes him off.  And turns.  “I’ll have you arrested, if you dare touch me again.”

“Barclay.  You have your orders!”  Donovan roars.

“Yes, Sgt.” 

Barclay turns to ginger and says through clenched teeth.  “Sir, I have to ask you to step outside, so I can read you—“

Mycroft’s mobile buzzes again.  He glances down at the screen.

 

**Mycroft, stop this tedious posturing and**

**call me immediately.  I know you’re awake.**

**SH**

 

A rather burly man in a white-coat enters the room, frowns, and raises his voice slightly. “Mr. Holmes?  I’m Dr. Henderson.  I’m here to discuss your physical therapy needs. And who are all these people?”

“Exactly my question.”  

Gregory Lestrade’s gruff voice overrides every other voice in the room.  There is a momentary lull and Mycroft admits to a feeling of relief.  He leans back slightly against the pillows, so as to give his aching shoulder a rest.  He shuts his eyes.  But re-opens them immediately when his mobile buzzes again. He glances down at the screen. And swears to himself.

 

**The Palace sends regards and wishes to know**

**the extent of Mr. Holmes’ injuries and when**

**he will once again be available.**

 

_Dear Lord in Heaven._

 

Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest. And raises his voice.

“What in sodding hell is going on in this hospital room?  I don’t care who in bloody hell you are, get the fuck out – now -- or I’ll haul everyone down to the Yard for questioning.”

“Now just a moment,” protests Doctor Henderson.

Lestrade shakes his head.  “Not you, Doctor, er Henderson.” He reads the name tag and stands back a bit.  “You can stay.”  He turns to regard everyone else.

Wilkins recognises Lestrade, glances over and at Mycroft’s quiet nod, exits the room.  He takes up his position outside the door. 

Ginger stares at Lestrade and starts to bluster. “I don’t know who you think you are to order me around, Sir, but I’ll have you know that –“

Lestrade advances on the man to tower over him.  “I’ll tell you who I am.  Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Yard and you, sir, are creating a public nuisance!”  He points to the open door.  “Out!  Now!”

Ginger huffs himself up to his full height, which isn’t much, glances at Mycroft, then exists, mumbling.  “You’ll hear about this, Holmes.”

Lestrade turns to Donovan.  “Sally, what is going on in here? Why are you and -- Barclay, is it -- even here?”

Sally huffs.  “To obtain Mr. Holmes’ statement, Sir.  I was just asking him – “

“I’ve already obtained his bloody statement.  This has to do with Sherlock, right?  Out, both of you.”

She has the sense to look chagrined.    “Yes Sir.  Come on, Barclay.”  Both of them begin to file out.

“And Donovan?” 

She turns at the door. 

“I’ll be speaking with you later about this,” Lestrade says.

Her eyes widen.  And she inwardly cringes at his use of her surname. “Yes sir.  Sorry, Sir.”

She and Barclay leave.

Lestrade turns to Doctor Henderson. “I’ll wait outside until you finish with Mr. Holmes, Doctor.”

“Actually, Detective Inspector, this can wait one more afternoon.  I think it’s more important that Mr. Holmes get his rest.”

He turns to Mycroft.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes, if that is okay?”’

Mycroft nods.  “That is more than satisfactory, Doctor Henderson.”

Henderson nods at Lestrade and leaves, shaking his head.

Greg Lestrade strides over to the door, all but slams it shut, thinks better of it at the last moment and quietly pushes it over until it clicks.

Silence reigns.

Mycroft raises one dark eyebrow.  “One day, you must teach me that trick,” he says.

“Hell, Mye, it’s just the voice of authority. I’ve had years to practice that one.”

Mycroft shifts slightly in his hospital bed.  His friend’s ‘voice of authority’ has had a rather odd effect on his breathing.

Greg reaches out and clicks off the overhead lights.  He comes back to the injured man’s bed and reaches to switch on the nightlight.  At once, the overwhelming sound and fury of the day dissipates in the quiet light and calm atmosphere.

Mycroft turns his head slightly to regard the DI, who pulls his chair up until their elbows brush.

“Thank you.”

“Any time.” 

Greg seats himself in the comfortable chair that Anthea used earlier and reaches out one warm hand to Mycroft Holmes.  After a moment, the man who is the British Government opens his right hand.  Greg places his warm one on the slightly shaking palm.  He grips it in his, then scoots his chair a bit closer.

He takes in Mycroft’s pale demeanor and the new pain lines that score his face.  And frowns.  He deliberately does not mention the mussed hair and faint growth of beard.  He finds it rather attractive.

He grins.  “Now where were we?”

The British Government clears his throat.  “I believe you were starting with the ‘voice of authority’ and going on from there.”

Greg gives him a devilish smile.

“Right,” he says.

** OooOooO  **

 

End of Book One.

Book Two to post shortly.


	5. PRISONER ON THE MOUNT

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**COMES A HORSEMAN**

skyefullofstars

**For** feliciaHM **who won me in the AO3 Auction and very kindly let me post her story chapter by chapter.  (With the occasional interruption from Real Life.)**

**Part two:  PRISONER ON THE MOUNT.**

 

**Ch. 1**

 

**OooOooO**

 

**_John_ **

 

Sherlock

****

**_John ?_ **

 

Yes?

 

**_JOHN_ **

 

I’m here, Sherlock.  WTF?

****

**_Succinct, albeit useless information._ **

**_Why aren’t you HERE?_ **

 

Double shift at the clinic today. 

****

**_?_ **

 

Which you would know if you ever read our calendar.

 

**_??_ **

 

Calendar?   Little boxes with useful bits written in?

Currently pinned to our kitchen wall. 

****

**_When did you begin posting your hours, John?_ **

 

3 years ago?

 

\--

****

**_\--_ **

 

**_That calendar._ **

 

Sherlock I’m busy.  What do you need?

 

**_\--_ **

 

And don’t say milk.

 

**_\--_ **

 

Cause you can bloody well get it yourself.

 

**_\--_ **

 

**_John.   Johhhnn_ **

 

No, Sherlock.  Surgery.  Double shift. 

Sarah is out with flu.

 

**_She is most assuredly spending the day_ **

**_with her current affair d’amour.  It is hardly influenza_ **

**_season in London._ **

 

Edinburgh.  Medical conference.

Stuck in a third star hotel, along with several others.

All of them sick as pups.  All suffering

from flu.  At least, we think it’s flu.  And what

do you mean, her current –

 

**_Unimportant, John.  Her  relationship is doomed_ **

**_to failure.   As was hers with you._ **

****

Says the person who doomed it. 

 

_**True.** _

 

Don’t be smug.

(Thanks for that, by the way.)

 ; - )

 

**_Emoticons? Really, John?_ **

**_(You’re welcome.)_ **

****

 Sorry. You’ll have to carry on alone.

 **** ****

**_John? How many times must I ask?_ **

 

Not going to happen. 

 

_**John.** _

 

Why, Sherlock?  We’ve been all over the

crime scene three times!  There aren’t any clues

to your brother’s shooting, Love.  Just the ballistics report.

All we know is that he was shot with the same weapon

that killed Lestrade’s people. 

****

**_That’s not it, John.  I need you._ **

**_Say Love again.  I liked it._ **

 

 

That is not going to work, Sherlock.

Love.

 

**_You help with certain thought processes …_ **

**_Among other things._ **

 

Flattering, but I am working, Sherlock.  You’ll have to

be your own light conductor.    I have patients to see.

 

**\--**

 

 

Beginning ten minutes ago.

****

**_But, John –_ **

 

Go bother your brother, LUV.

 

 _ **Tedious.**_  

 

I’m certain the two Holmes geniuses can put their

heads together and come up with the solution

to this puzzle.  If not Mycroft, then use his people. 

They’re trained agents, for God’s sake.

And tell Greg to keep his head down.

 

**_Unnecessary, John.  Since the news reports_ **

**_that a top-ranking government official was_ **

**_shot, apparently in error, I expect our shooter_ **

**_to keep a low profile.  At least temporarily._ **

**_Besides, Mycroft’s people, as you call them,_ **

**_are all over this.  With zero results, by the way._ **

****

****

 

Still smug, Sherlock.

Actually, it IS surprising.

With the resources he has at his disposal?

Greg should still be careful.

L.

O.

V.

E.

****

****

**_Johnnnn_ **

 

 

Sherlock?  Go see Mycroft.  I’m busy.

I  <3  U.

 

**_He’s being discharged today._ **

****

Good, I guess.  If not a bit premature.

It’s only been 7 days.  I suspect he pulled

strings to get out of there early.

L.O.V.E. 

****

**_The poor damn git._ **

  

?

****

**_Think, John.  Mummy has been in more or less_ **

**_constant attendance since the shooting._ **

 

 

? ?

 

****

**_THINK, John!  She will insist on accompanying_ **

**_my brother home.  Where she will set up shop,_ **

**_I believe the phrase is, to personally oversee his_ **

**_recovery._ **

 

 And?

 

**_With endless cups of hot tea and constant medical_ **

**_advice, gleaned,  no doubt,  from the pages of_ **

**_whatever medical journal she has managed to_ **

**_steal from our flat._ **

 

I wondered where my journals had got to.

:-*

 

 

**_She’s been taking them for weeks, John,_ **

**_each time she’s visited for tea.  Do try to keep up._ **

**_No more emoticons, John.  Please._ **

 

:-P

 

**_Mycroft’s life is about to become a living hell._ **

**_Even more so than usual._ **

**_He’ll wish he were back in Emergency Care_ **

**_before our mother gets through with him._ **

****

**_\--_ **

 

**_John?_ **

****

**_John?_ **

 

POOR. DAMN. GIT.

 

**_Exactly_ **

**_; - )_ **

****

Sherlock!

 

**OooOooO**

"Easy, son.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mycroft, you are most definitely not fine.  Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Mother, truly.  I’m feeling much better.  Don’t fuss.”

Regina Holmes sniffs.  “Very well.  I won’t fuss, as you put it.  But you are to remain here in bed while I prepare your tea.”

Mycroft sighs and attempts to get comfortable against the small mountain of pillows his maternal parent has placed at his back.  Immediately, Regina rushes over to pull the pillows back into position.

“Son, please.  You have got to promise you will ask for help when you need it.”

“Mother, I was merely adjusting my position.  And I do not require any assistance.  I’m just attempting to get comfortable.  You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot.  Franklin is …somewhere … about.  He will most assuredly assist with whatever help I may need.”

“Franklin?  Please, Mycroft.  The dear man cannot run this entire place and take care of you, as well.  He has his hands full. That’s why I am here.  Besides, I’ve sent him to market with your driver. You are out of everything of any consequence.”

“I seldom eat at home, Mother.  I expect Franklin to stock what he sees fit.”

Regina raises one eyebrow, then shakes her head as she leaves her eldest son to make her way to the kitchen.  At the door of his bedroom, she turns and fixes him with a glare.

“And don’t even think of calling that clever PA of yours.  Your doctors instructed you to rest and rest you shall.  No mobile.  And no visitors.  Not for a few days, at least.”

“Very well, Mother.”

He waits for her to leave, then glances around for his phone, which normally resides on the side table but is most obvious in its absence.  He does not put it past his mother to have dropped the phone in her purse at the hospital.  It certainly didn’t come home in the pocket of his robe.

“Damn it.”

Mycroft Holmes shifts again, then shuts his eyes momentarily as a particularly bad twinge (for twinge, read “sharp shooting pain”) threatens to tear a groan from him.  He would rather die than let his mother hear him in pain.  He bites his lip and takes a deep breath.  One more. 

He opens steel blue eyes and stares across the room at the landline on his writing desk.  Only a few feet away but it might as well be hundreds.

He stares at the phone … and wonders where Gregory Lestrade is and what he is doing at this moment in time.

**OooOooO**

“Donovan, a word?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sally bites her lip and steals a glance at the clock on the wall.  Frankly, she is amazed this moment didn’t come days earlier.  But the DI has been conspicuous by his absence the last few days.   A fact which has not escaped her attention or that of several others in the department. 

She stands, brushes a hand over her skirt and walks in to face the music.

“Shut the door, please.”

She nods and comes to stand in front of the Detective Inspector.  He glances up at her, then picks up a pen and begins to beat a small rhythm with it on his desk blotter.

“For God’s sake, Sally, sit down.  You look as if you’ve come to your own execution.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She sits and folds her hands in her lap.

The two look at each other for a moment.

“Okay, Sally.  Let’s have it.  And don’t ‘ _Sir’_ me to death.” 

“If this is about my being in Holmes’ hospital room a few days ago –”

“You know damned well it’s about that  -- and about your continued sniping about Sherlock Holmes.”

She raises an eyebrow.

He tosses the pen down to lean back in his chair.  “Sorry.  Poor choice of words.”

“Look, Donovan, no matter what your personal opinion is of Sherlock, the fact of the matter stands, it was his brother who was shot.  He has every right to investigate -- ”

 "Actually, Sir, if I may interrupt.  He doesn’t.  Have every right, that is.  This is a police investigation and frankly, it is my professional opinion that he needs to keep his big nose out of this one.  Out of all of them, to be exact, but most assuredly out of this particular investigation.”

Lestrade looks at her with narrowed eyes.

She just nods her curly head.  “Sir.”

Lestrade sighs.  He steals a glance at his watch. He wonders what Mycroft is doing and how he is holding up.

It’s going to be a long afternoon.

**OooOooO**

“Mycroft?”

He opens his eyes and looks into his mother’s pale gaze. 

“Yes, Mummy?”

“Are you in pain, son?”

He thinks about lying to her, then decides it’s of little use.  She is, after all, a Holmes, if not _the_ Holmes.  She will know immediately if he prevaricates.

“A bit.”

“To be expected.”  She glances at the small bedside clock.  “You can have your pain medication in a half hour.”

“Very well.”  He shuts his eyes again.

“Mycroft?”

He opens his eyes.

“Yes, Mummy?”

“In the meantime, is there anything I can get you?”

“My book.  Over on the desk, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”  She brings it to him, then stands uncertainly at his side.

He looks at the book, then sets it aside.  And lifts his head to look at her.

She smiles down at her firstborn, but her smile is brittle.  Her eyes fill.

“Mummy?”

She just shakes her head and bites her lip.  Impulsively, she reaches out to grasp his good left hand.

Mycroft encloses her hand with his own.  And is struck anew at the softness of his Mother’s skin.  He could be holding the bones of a small bird.  Her hand is that small.  And that fragile.

_Dear God.  Most of her life is over.  She mustn’t…._

He clears his throat.  “Mummy?  I’m so very sorry for what I’ve put you through this past week.”

Regina Holmes stares at him, then bends to place a soft kiss along his hairline.  He feels something wet graze his cheek. 

“Never, ever apologize to me for that, all right?”

She pulls back to pierce him with a pale grey stare.

He looks into her eyes,  so very like Sherlock’s.  It’s suddenly hard to take a deep breath.

“All right, Mummy.”

“Good.”  Once more, all brisk efficiency, she pulls back and brushes an imaginary piece of lint off the near shoulder of his dark crimson robe.

“What about a hand of cards?  I think it’s best you remain awake until you can have your pain medication. It will help you adapt to using your left hand."

Mycroft smiles tiredly.  “If you like.”

  **OooOooO**

Greg Lestrade gathers up several files and shoves them into his briefcase.  He glances at his watch, then pulls out his mobile.

No texts.  And more to the point, no missed phone calls.

 He hesitates, his fingers over the keys.  Then thinks better of it and yanks up his briefcase.  At the door, he clicks off his lights and makes his lonely way out of the Yard and down to the street to hail a cab.

 

**OooOooO**

 

Thai or Chinese?

 

 **_Thai._ ** **_Thai is for working._ **

**_Chinese for celebrating._ **

**_Buy for three.  Lestrade may accompany me._ **

****

This is the first time I realized our takeout

dinners were -- Sherlock !

 

**_John ?_ **

 

That night, after the cabbie, when we went to your favorite

Chinese restaurant --

 

**_Yes?_ **

 

Celebrating?

 

_**Do try to keep up, John.** _

 

; - )

BTB, Mycroft get home okay?

 

**_Most assuredly._ **

 

You spoke with him then?

  

**_No need.  Mummy accompanied him._ **

**_Result was foregone conclusion._ **

 

 I would have thought that Greg –

 

**_I told you, John. There are certain_ **

**_mental images…_ **

 

Thai for 3 it is.

Why is Greg coming to our flat?

Not that he isn’t welcome.

 

**_He’s bringing every scrap of data on the_ **

**_shootings – Mycroft’s and the others._ **

 

Is that wise?  I know he’s your brother,

I care about Mycroft, too.  But --

 

**_I need those files, John._ **

 

You’ve been over them.  Besides,

how does he justify providing you those

copies?  His arse will be in a sling if he’s caught.

 

**_Vivid imagery John._ **

**_But I assure you, it will be fine._ **

**_I need those files!_ **

 

I’m finishing up here now.

Just – go easy with him, okay?

****

**_To what purpose?_ **

**_I need everything I can get my hands on._**  

**_Crime scene photos. Forensics.  Ballistics._ **

**_Witness reports._ **

 

Sherlock, you’ve seen everything.  There’s

not a damn bit of information you haven’t

read or handled.  Nothing.

****

**_Not all in one place, John._ **

**_Up until now, it’s all been piece meal._ **

**_He has promised to bring copies of_ **

**_everything. He has been dancing attendance upon_ **

**_my brother.  Useless!  Thank God he’s come to_ **

**_his senses._ **

 

You didn’t. 

 

**_??_ **

 

You DID.  You guilted him into that, Sherlock.

 

**_Unimportant, John. And is that even a word?_ **

 

Greg feels guilty that it wasn’t him lying in that

hospital bed. You prayed on the man’s guilt. 

Greg will be in serious trouble if this gets around.

 

**_Your point ?_ **

**_I will catch this bastard, John._ **

**_And it won’t ‘get around’ as you put it._ **

****

Just don’t let Donovan or any of his other officers

get wind of this. Greg doesn’t need any more grief

right now.  

 

**_Dull._ **

 

Promise me you’ll be discreet.

 

\--

 

Sherlock?

 

**_John, I  will be the very soul of discretion._ **

 

Spare me. 

Home shortly.

Do we have any beer on hand?

Or have you cleaned us out working on some

experiment or other?

 

\--

 

Sherlock?

 

Sherlock?

 

**_Say that again, John._ **

 

Do we have any beer on hand?

 

**_No.  The last._ **

 

Have you cleaned us out working on some

experiment or other? 

 

_**Oh, you are brilliant!** _

_**John, you are amazing!** _

 

Thanks.  I think ?

 

**OooOooO**

 

At Baker Street, John gets out of the cab and shifts the white bags from one hand to the other, in order to reach his wallet. 

 

“Need a hand?”

He turns at the sound of the DI’s gruff voice.  And grins.  “Yeah.  Grab these for a second?”

“Sure.”

Greg good naturedly takes the bags and sniffs appreciatively at the heavenly scent of Thai food.  God, it’s been too long since he ate a proper meal.  His stomach growls in protest.  He waits patiently while John pays the cabbie. 

“Thanks, Greg.”

John takes the bags back, then gets a good look at his friend’s face.

“When was the last time you slept?  Or ate a decent meal, for that matter?”

The DI shakes his head.  “Don’t you start, too, John.”

The ex-soldier cocks an eyebrow.  “Too?”

He shifts the bags in order to get at his keys.  He has no intention of disturbing Mrs. Hudson, if he can help it. 

Greg stands behind him, his hands in the pockets of his ancient trench coat.

“Donovan.  Turns out she and some of the other on my team are so concerned about this shooting and about its effect on me, that…well…”

Keys in hand, John turns and stares at Lestrade.  “To be expected, right?  I mean, it’s obvious your people care, Greg.  That shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

He shrugs his shoulders.  “Yeah.  I guess. I … I think Sally has let her concern override her professionalism.  I don’t expect her – any of them, for that matter – to care about Mycroft as anything other than a victim in this.”

John nods sympathetically.  “Frankly, Greg, I’m a bit surprised to see you here.  I figured you’d be at Mycroft’s.”

Greg looks into the former soldier’s dark blue gaze.  “I don’t think…hell, John.  There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.  But your mother-in-law has taken up residence, it seems.  And I don’t think that —”

John laughs.  “If you think Mycroft would rather have his Mum at his house than you, Gregory Lestrade, you are tired.”  He considers the DI’s worn face.  And comes to a decision.

“Did you bring the files that my maddening spouse asked for?” 

“Got them right here, why?”

“Hand ‘em over.” 

Greg fishes the folder out of his briefcase. And tucks it under John’s arm.

John nods.  “Anything I need to know?  Anything that isn’t easily explained in this lot?”

“Naw, John. Not even sure what Sherlock’s looking for.  He’s seen it all before. But I made him a promise.”

“And you’ve made good on it, Greg.  Now grab a taxi, get your arse over to Mycroft’s and don’t let Regina Holmes – or any Holmes, for that matter – keep you from seeing him.  And hurry, before Sherlock races down the stairs to cut you off.”

“He wouldn’t.” 

John just stares at him. The DI sighs.

 “You’re right.  He would.  Okay, John.  Thanks!”

 “Don’t mention it.” 

 John watches Greg hurry to the street, one arm raised.  Almost immediately, a taxi pulls over to the kerb.

 “Good on you, mate,” John murmurs.

 He shifts the bags again, gets a firm grip on the folder under his arm and fits his key in the lock.

 

**OooOooO**

 

“Mrs Holmes?”

“Detective Inspector.  What a surprise.  I’ll tell my son you came to check on him.  He’ll be pleased to hear it.”

Regina begins to close the door.  Face flushed, Greg stands his ground.

“Actually, Mrs Holmes.  I’d like to see him for a few minutes, if that’s all right.  He did ask me to come around.”

“Did he indeed, Inspector?”

“Detective Inspector, Ma’am.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. My apologies.”

She stands in the open door and looks at Greg Lestrade’s tired but determined face and just nods.  So be it. 

She opens the door.  “Please forgive my rudeness, Inspector.  Please understand.  My son has never been shot before.  I find I’m having a difficult time coming to terms with the situation.”

Greg smiles.  “I understand.  I’m having much the same problem myself.”

“Certainly. This way, Detective Inspector.”

“It’s Greg, Ma’am.”

Mycroft opens his eyes as both his mother and Greg Lestrade come into his bedroom.

Greg pauses in the doorway, glances around the large room.  Then he meets Mycroft’s steady gaze.  And the tiredness of the past week seems to fall from his shoulders.

Mycroft’s eyes widen.  A nearly imperceptible reaction.  But Regina notes it.

“Gregory.”

“I found your Detective Inspector on the doorstep, Mycroft.”

If they note her use of the word _‘your,_ ’ both of them ignore it.

“Yes, Mother.  I can see that.”

Regina looks from her son, to Greg Lestrade, and back again.  There is a moment’s silence between the three of them.

She nods.

“I think I have some errands to run.  Mycroft, may I commandeer your driver for the afternoon?  My – errands – may take some time.”

Mycroft tears his eyes from Greg’s slightly flushed face to his mother’s amused gaze.  “Of course, Mummy.  He’s at your disposal.”

She nods.  “I think I’ll take Franklin with me, if you don’t mind.  He can help me carry packages.”

Mycroft nods gravely.  “I’m certain he will be happy to be of use, Mother.  He seldom gets out.  And now, twice in one day?  Don’t tire the man out, please.  He is getting on in years.”

“Of course, son.”

She glances at Greg.  “Detective Inspector, my son has had his pain medication and he is due no other medicines at this time.  He may, however, wish a cup of tea.”

Greg swallows past the small rock in his throat.  “Thank you, Mrs Holmes.  I’m sure we have all we need.”

She smiles.  “I’m certain of it.  Well…Gentlemen.”

She walks away.  A gentle trail of Chanel wafts in the air behind her.

Greg turns toward Mycroft and raises one eyebrow.

“Well, it’s obvious where you and Sherlock get it from.”

Mycroft  purses his lips.  “Do shut up.  And about that tea?”

Greg grins, suddenly affable.  “Sure. Which way’s the kitchen?  And don’t you dare try to get up, _Mr Holmes_.  We live to serve.”

Mycroft leans back against his pillows and sighs.

“Gregory, you don’t know how good it is to have you here.  Down the hall, right through the formal dining room, then left.”

“Got it.  Back in a minute.”

Mycroft shuts his eyes.  And hums. 

 

**OooOooO**

 

“John, I fail to understand why you let Lestrade leave like that. I might need to ask him questions about –”

“Shut it, Sherlock.  Eat your meal. And leave Greg and Mycroft in peace for a few hours.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

 

  **OooOooO**

 

Greg stands in the frankly amazing kitchen and stares around him for a moment.  Finally, he shrugs and fills the kettle.  He puts it on to boil, then begins opening cupboards.  And strikes pay dirt on the third one over.  He finds teacups (made out of delicate bone China, of course, with some sort of crest on them), small plates and – hallelujah! – several assorted boxes of tea. 

Gregory Lestrade is not a trained investigator for nothing.  One glance tells him which box has not only been opened but has been used the most, the slightly bent corner and worn flap testifying that this is probably Mycroft Holmes’ favorite.

He raises an eyebrow at the Taylors of Harrogate logo, then shakes his head and begins to prepare two steaming cups of Pure Assam Tea.  Personally, he prefers coffee but doubts if the elder Holmes even knows what that is, let alone stocks the brew in his home.

Greg finds a small tray on the sideboard, then opens the refrigerator to find milk.  The kettle whistles and he lets it, as he pours a small stream of milk into each delicate cup, adds one teabag each and finally puts the kettle out of its misery.  He fills each cup with boiling water, then glances around again.  A quick rummage through yet more cupboards and he comes up empty-handed.  He can find nothing that remotely resembles a tea cake or biscuit and wonders if Mycroft is, once again, on his diet.  Pity.  He’s hungry and fancies something to go with his cuppa.  Ah, well.

He adds sugar to Mycroft’s cup, places two silver spoons on the tray, along with the two fragrant cups and bends to lift the whole thing, when his mobile sounds in his pocket. 

Greg frowns.  Dear God, don’t let this be work.  On the other hand, if it’s Sherlock or John and if they have found something …

He fishes his mobile out of his pocket and glances at his text screen.

And grins.

 

**_Gregory, the cakes my son prefers are_ **

**_kept in the breadbox on sideboard._ **

**_RH_ **

****

He finds what he is looking for, then lifts the tray and makes his way back to Mycroft’s bedroom. 

At the sound of Greg’s quiet footsteps, Mycroft  places a marker in his book and sets it down on the bed beside him.  He smiles at the DI, as he comes into the room.

“I see you found your way around the kitchen.”

“Is that what you call it?  That place would give a five-star restaurant a run for its money.”

Greg places the tray on the table next to Mycroft’s left hand, then stirs a cup of tea quickly and finally removes the tea bag.  He hands the cup to Mycroft, who nods his thanks.

“Jaffa cakes?  Really, Mye?” 

“A childhood indulgence.  I am very fond of Jaffa cakes.”

Greg moves a chair into position and settles back with his own cup of tea.  “Two spoons of sugar, splash of milk, as requested.”

Mycroft smiles and Greg watches warily as the elder Holmes deftly raises the steaming cup of Assam to his mouth, left-handed.  Mycroft sips, then shuts his eyes and sighs in appreciation.

Greg’s mouth twitches.

“God, Mye, it’s just tea.”

Mycroft shakes his head, careful of the bandages over his right shoulder and arm.

“No, Gregory, you’re wrong.  It’s nectar.” 

He gently returns his cup to its saucer and glances at the small cakes that sit on their own plate to the side.

“Well, in that case…”  Mycroft turns his head to regard Greg as he tentatively sips at his own cup.  His eyes widen in appreciation and Mycroft smiles. 

“To your liking?” he asks.

“Cripes, what is this stuff?”

“Good?”

“More than bloody good.  Great.”

Mycroft smiles again, then frowns as another spasm shoots through his arm.

Instantly, the DI is up and moving toward him.  He sets his own cup of tea on the side table and leans over the injured man. 

“Here, don’t move for a second.”

Gregory Lestrade slips one warm hand behind Mycroft’s back and, carefully avoiding the wound, begins to rub small circles over the injured man’s upper back.  He begins to knead the tight muscles of Mycroft’s neck and left shoulder, careful not to tug at the bandages.

“Better?”

“Hmmm.  Greg?”

 “Yes?”

"Don’t stop.”

The DI laughs.

Greg moves his chair close to the left side of the bed, then picks up his rapidly cooling tea.  Mycroft regards him fondly.

“Gregory, in the parlance of tea, you would be named “Pekoe.”

Greg tilts his head.  “Okay, I’m a plain bloke, Mye.  You’re going to have to explain that one,” he says.  “Does that mean I’m a common sort of tea?  Which … don’t get me wrong … would be an apt description.”

"Common?  Hardly.”

Mycroft smiles gently and leans toward the DI.  

Greg’s eyes widen.  “Should you be moving like that, Mye?  For God’s sake, don’t pull your stitches.”

“Stop worrying.  The pain medication is helping splendidly.  And I’m not pulling my right side.”

Greg looks at him steadily. Then shrugs.  “Well, in that case.”  He sets his cup down once more and leans toward the man in the bed. “You were saying?”

Mycroft whispers into the soft grey fringe over the DI’s forehead.

“ _The word “pekoe” comes from the Chinese word meaning “silver-haired.”_

His warm breath flows over the DI’s skin.  Suddenly, the temperature in the room seems to rise by several degrees.  As if the atmosphere has become charged in the past minute and a half.

Greg takes a breath … and shuts his eyes.

But he doesn’t pull back.

**OooOooO**


	6. PRISONER ON THE MOUNT

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**COMES A HORSEMAN**

skyefullofstars

**For** feliciaHM **who won me in the AO3 Auction and very kindly let me post her story chapter by chapter.  (With the occasional interruption from Real Life.)**

**Part two:  PRISONER ON THE MOUNT.**

CH. 2

**OooOooO**

As a first kiss, it isn’t bad.

Their lips meet in a soft brush of moist skin and warm breath.  Slow. Gentle. 

Sweetly hesitant.

Greg is especially careful not to demand too much of the wounded man.  And dear God in heaven, but they are in Mycroft’s bedroom, and for all Greg knows, Regina Holmes will be back any minute now, let alone Mycroft’s man.  He really should leave.  Now.   

But then the man in the bed tilts his head and carefully kisses first one corner of Greg’s mouth, then the other.  He presses in to soft skin, flushed with warmth.

Greg groans slightly. Truly, he needs to leave and let the wounded man get back to sleep.  What in the hell is he even thinking?

But Mycroft continues to lean in, to demand more. He lifts his good hand and Greg feels lean, strong fingers grip him by the elbow -- and tug.  Greg is surprised to find that he has closed his eyes.  He opens them to stare into the cool blue gaze of his ‘almost lover.’ 

His breath leaves his lungs in a soft huff.

“Mye,” Greg warns softly.  

Mycroft sighs. His normally cultured tones rough with emotion.  “I assure you, Gregory, at present, I am not in any undue discomfort.”

Greg tilts an expressive eyebrow, as he looks into Mycroft’s eyes.  “Certain about that, are you?”

A smile, made all the more special due to its rarity, tugs at the younger man’s lips.  “Very,” he says softly.

Greg pulls back slightly to consider the expressive lips in front of his.  A devilish grin plays across his face.  “Well then, in for a penny,” he murmurs.

He bends toward Mycroft to cup the other man’s face in his warm palms. And fits his mouth to the other with calculating precision.

This time, the angle is perfect. 

All trace of hesitancy vanishes as both men deepen the kiss. A slow burn spreads through Greg Lestrade’s chest.  His fingertips brush through soft hair, a dark ginger in the soft light from the bedside lamp. His breath deepens, as his thigh and stomach muscles tighten.

Suddenly, he grips Mycroft’s face hard with both hands and does his best to pour his soul into the other man’s lungs.

_God in heaven! What has he got himself in to?_

Mycroft moans slightly and Greg pulls back, instantly alert.  But he needn’t be.

“No.  It’s -- fine.  I’m fine.  Please.  Please, Gregory.”  And Mycroft Holmes tightens his grip on Greg’s arm and brings their mouths together in a soul-bruising kiss.

A near breathless minute.  One more.  And both men pull apart, chests heaving, foreheads touching, eyes closed.

“Crikey,” Greg Lestrade whispers against his lover’s skin.

“Indeed,” Mycroft Holmes replies.

Greg opens his eyes and stares at Mycroft in quiet amazement.  His lover looks steadily back at him, his normally pale color heightened by a warm blush.

Greg’s rough hands stroke along Mycroft’s face.  He angles his touch downward to cup the firm jaw in his right hand and rub back and forth across the smooth skin with one calloused thumb. The barest hint of stubble greets his wandering fingers.

This is almost unbearably erotic and Greg shifts position in his chair, suddenly realizing his predicament.   _Now what?_

Mycroft chuckles.  “Gregory, please. If you are about to inquire as to whether or not my mother actually shaves me, the answer is no.”

Greg nods.    “Good to know.  But just for the record, in hospital, you were a bit unshaven and I … rather liked it.”

Mycroft loosens his grip on Greg’s arm. He feels fatigued but he is loath to pull away and be the one to break the spell.

“Really,  Detective Inspector?  Shall I remain unshaven during my recuperation or shall we mark the calendar and plan on which days –”

Greg leans forward to silence him with a kiss.  It’s a quick press of lips against lips.  Mycroft’s are surprisingly soft. 

Greg’s thumb continues to rub back and forth over the strong jaw. He loves the feel of his fingers against Mycroft’s slight stubble.  He revels in the softened blue gaze that threatens to envelope his senses. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmurs, his voice affectionate, hushed.

For a man whose speech patterns alternate between cutting, if not downright acerbic, Mycroft Holmes is a study in contrasts.

Ah, well, even steel can bend. 

“I have to get back to work, Mye.  This case isn’t going to solve itself.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to object -- the sound of a distant door and rapid footsteps is all the warning they get.

Pulse hammering, Greg manages to put several feet between himself and Mycroft just before  Regina Holmes enters the room.  Desperately, he snatches at one of the papers as if he was just reading to the wounded man.

Mycroft watches him with some amusement, not fooled one bit about the DI's obvious discomfort.

“There you both are,” Regina Holmes says brightly.

 _Where in hell did she think we had got to_? Greg wonders. 

He stands as a courtesy, but keeps the newspaper open and dangling between his fingers, a flimsy barrier, at best, between Regina and himself.  And wishes to God he could rearrange his clothing.

Unperturbed by what she may – or may not – have interrupted, Regina smiles at both men.

“Gregory, thank you for staying.  Mycroft, I found those biscuits you’re so fond of, the ones with the chocolate icing?”

Mycroft nods at his mother, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of his erstwhile lover’s discomfiture, as he attempts to hide behind the rumpled copy of the _Times._

“Yes, Mummy, of course.  Very thoughtful.”

He turns his head.  “Gregory?  Care for a biscuit?”

Greg shakes his head, his face crimson.

Regina Holmes looks from one man to the other, a brittle smile on her beautiful face.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock sits in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, his grey-green eyes unfocused.  John suspects he isn’t even aware that the former soldier is still in the room.

“ _Thinking pose number two,”_ John notes.  The doctor sits in his chair opposite the detective’s, evening paper open on his lap, but he’s long since stopped pretending to read.

Instead, he watches his mate as he navigates his mind palace.  Minutes tick by.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes focus and jerk up to meet John’s gaze.  Pale grey looks into dark blue.

John tilts his head.  He knows his husband very well, indeed. And he recognises the look.

“You’ve thought of something,” John says.  He keeps his tone level, quietly helpful … careful not to disrupt whatever thought patterns or memories Sherlock has pursued.

“You said something interesting a few hours ago, John.  Rather, you texted it.”

John drops the now forgotten newspaper on the floor beside his chair.  “All right then, let’s have it.  What did I text?”

The detective retrieves his mobile phone from his lap; tilts his head at the screen.  “Do we have any beer on hand? Or have you cleaned us out working on some experiment or other? ”

John’s eyes narrow slightly, then he nods.  “Yup.  Okay.  And?”

Sherlock drops his hands to his lap and regards his Army doctor with obvious fondness. 

“John, what is typically meant by the term, ‘to clean house?’ ”

John looks across at the detective.  “Other than the obvious?”

Sherlock inclines his head, but doesn’t speak. 

John scrubs a hand over his face.  “Setting aside our own abode’s distinct need for a Hoovering …”

“Focus, John,” Sherlock murmurs.

John sighs.  “Well …. er, Okay.  What comes to mind is the phrase used when one political party routs another.  ‘Out with the old; in with the new.’ That sort of thing.”

“’New broom sweeps clean’,” prompts Sherlock.  “There’s a reason clichés become clichés.  Very good.   And?”

“And,” John says, “the term is used in business.  New manager comes into power, bang out the door go the associates who were closely associated with the former.  Hence … ‘to clean house.’  Hell, Sherlock, not sure what you’re going for here, but we even used it in the military: do a sweep, a recon.”

“But with a different connotation, as your unit’s ‘cleaning house’ undoubtedly had a decidedly more violent and final, meaning.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock nods and a single curl tumbles over his forehead, which lends him a slightly rakish air. 

John smiles.

“Nevertheless, John, your military term is what I was going for, more or less.”

“Let’s have it, then.” 

“Just a minute, John.”  Sherlock takes his mobile in hand and types furiously over the keys. 

John waits. Tonight, he is nothing if not patient with his consulting spouse’s thought processes. 

Sherlock hits _Send_ , then drops the phone into his lap. 

“I’ve been remiss, John,” he says.  John notes the tension in the deep voice.

“Because of my brother’s involvement, I have been focused on finding the shooter, on discovering his whereabouts from any clues left behind at the scene.  Clues which have been decidedly spare.”

John frowns.  “I don’t understand, Sherlock.  Isn’t that what you’re – we’re – supposed to be doing?”

Sherlock nods again.  “Of course.  But the lack of any discernible data at the crime scene, other than at the actual site of the shooting and the dumping of the unfortunate Sergeant Heath’s body, has caused me to ignore a viable avenue.”

“Still not following, love.”

Sherlock’s eyes flare from his pale face, his chiseled cheekbones brushed by two streaks of soft crimson at John’s endearment.  “John, in all the files Lestrade sent over, was there any mention of recent firings?  Terminations?”

John’s considers.  “No.  The files, photos, statements, all of it pertained to the three shootings, including your brother’s, of course.  There were no actual personnel files included.  You didn’t request any.” 

He tilts his head.  “Why, Sherlock?  You think – what?  That someone, an officer or some such,  gets the sack and comes back, out for blood?”

Sherlock smiles grimly.  “Melodramatic, John, but possibly correct.  Setting aside, temporarily, finding the shooter, let’s concentrate instead on the _why_ of the shooting.  Why Sergeant Heath? Why Sergeant Tomlinson?  And why Lestrade himself, other than as a means to exact revenge for some slight, real or imagined?”

John thinks this over for a moment.  He leans forward, his hands clasped. 

“Sherlock, if you’re right about this, if our shooter is a former or current police officer, then it might also explain our main headache in this case.  Who better than a professional law enforcement officer to not only commit these murders, but to cover his – or her – tracks?”

Sherlock frowns.  “If we do find something in the personnel files, John, it means that –”

John’s voice is grim.  “It means that Greg is still in danger.  Regardless of your brother’s accidental involvement, the shooter won’t be satisfied until Lestrade is dead.”

Sherlock sits back, satisfied.  “Exactly, John.”

**OooOooO**

 

Greg Lestrade tosses the folder toward the edge of the desk, misjudges his aim and lunges to catch it as it skids across the surface toward the edge.  Too slow.  The file topples to the floor, its contents spilling every which way.

“Shite.”  He drops his head to his palms and runs his fingers through his short silver hair.

“Shite, hell and damn!” 

He lifts his head to stare around his office.  His blurry gaze takes in five empty Styrofoam cups, scattered over his desktop.  They hold the dregs of coffee, long grown cold.  Tea, ditto.  None of it very good.  He thinks briefly of the fine tea he drank at Mycroft’s and shakes his head.

He’s been at it for nearly seven hours now and no closer to a solution then when he began.

Greg scrubs a weary hand over his eyes.  Damn, but he needs some sleep.  First a shower, change of clothing, decent food.  Not this crap.  He picks up the sad remains of a half-eaten sandwich, drops it in the bin, then leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes.

He needs to focus, to be the trained professional investigator.  He needs to remember, for fucks’ sake, that he is the Detective Inspector and not some horny teenager, fumbling in the back seat of his family car.

 _For god’s sakes, stop thinking with your gonads and start using your brain. Other lives may depend on it.  Mye’s life may …_ It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Still, for the life of him, he can’t keep his tired thoughts from circling back to Mycroft…and the near stunned guppy look on the elder Holmes’ face when Greg leaned in.

For a first kiss, it was … memorable.  They bettered it with the second.  But the third – my God !

Damn it, what the hell is wrong with him?  He’s lost a good man, two good men.  True, he didn’t know Heath that well.  The man had just started a few months back, transferred from the northern office, but he was a good man, good at what he did.  And no one deserves to get it like that - a bullet to the head.  And as for Tomlinson …

He rises slowly and crosses in front of his desk to scoop up the folder and shove the pages back inside.  A photograph falls out. He bends to retrieve it and stands for a moment, photo in hand.

Sergeant Wilson Heath.  Greg sits down again and stares at the dead man’s photo.  Rapid rise through the ranks.  Excellent police officer.  Good sergeant.  Too young by half.  

God damn it, this is embarrassing.  He has the Yarders at his disposal.  Good people, seasoned officers and trained investigators.  He has Donovan, who’s as good as any bulldog once she’s on the scent.  And don’t even get him started on Mycroft’s people.  Crack government agents, all.

To top that off, his secret weapon, not so secret now.  The world’s only consulting detective.

And not one of them has a bloody clue.  Nothing at the crime scene.  No weapon. No fibers.  No footprints.  One little smudge on the rooftop that may -- or may not -- have been where the shooter rested his elbow.  No fingerprints.  No one seen fleeing the scene.  His people were all over it just moments after Mycroft’s shooting.  Nothing.  Nada.

And at the latest crime scene itself, plenty of footsteps, where dozens of officers and Mycroft’s own people milled around, trampling all over the place.  But in the end, nothing there of any real use. 

Unless you count bloodstains … all over the damn concrete.  Mycroft’s blood.

Well, as soon as Molly completes her autopsy on Heath, maybe she’ll come up with something.

Greg looks at the photo again, then shoves it into the file with the other photographs.  He sets the folder to his side and leans forward to reach for his favorite pen.  He begins to tap a quick rhythm on the blotter.

Mycroft’s blood.

When it should have been his.  His, not Mycroft’s.

Mycroft’s.

Greg stares ahead at nothing as he continues to tap with the pen. 

Something nudges … the memory is elusive … near the surface.  He takes a slow, patient breath, doesn’t force it.  Just keeps tapping with the pen.  His eyes stare at nothing in particular.

Ah, there it is. 

Something his history teacher once said.  Once?  Hell, make that a half dozen times as he tried to drill it into the heads of his students.  Greg can picture the elder, grey-haired man as he walked back and forth in front of the classroom.  Back and forth.  He hears again his clipped, American accent.

 _“Pay attention.  Do not get bogged down in what you_ think _happened.  Look.  Observe.  Ask yourself: what_ really _happened?  Then work backwards to arrive at the truth.”_

Work backwards.

So… he needs to begin at the end and go back to --

Greg’s eyes widen.  What if …  no.  That makes no sense at all.   None. 

“Do not get bogged down in what you _think_ happened … .”

It makes no sense.  Still …

Greg jerks his mobile toward him, gets his thoughts in order, then begins to text.

At Baker Street, John looks up from his medical journal as Sherlock’s mobile chimes.

**OooOooO**


	7. PRISONER ON THE MOUNT

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**COMES A HORSEMAN**

skyefullofstars

**For** feliciaHM **who won me in the AO3 Auction and very kindly let me post her story chapter by chapter.  (With the occasional interruption from Real Life.)**

**Part two:  PRISONER ON THE MOUNT.**

CH. 3

**OooOooO**

Sherlock glances at the screen.  “Lestrade.”

He reads the text quickly. 

John watches a frown play over his mate’s features.  His copy of the BMJ forgotten, the former soldier leans forward in anticipation.

“Well?”

Sherlock lowers the phone and regards his husband over the top of it.

“Ridiculous.  Lestrade is reaching.”

“How?  What did he text?”

Sherlock stands abruptly and strides to the fireplace to lean with his back to the mantle.  He flips his phone back and forth, while mercurial eyes stare at nothing.

“Utterly ridiculous,” he murmurs.  “Yet, it would explain …”

 “Sherlock,” warns John.  “What _is_ it?”

Sherlock’s eyes refocus and he glances at John.  “ _It,_ as you put it, John, is Lestrade.  He has put force a _hypothesis_ , if you will.  But it makes no sense, given the parameters of this case.”

Impatient, John stands.  “Sherlock, I’m going to strangle you in a moment, if you don’t tell me what he said.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “Lestrade has questioned whether my brother’s shooting was, in fact, accidental.”

John stares at his husband, his pale brows knitted together in a frown.

There’s a moment’s silence, then his dark blue eyes narrow.  “Greg thinks that …wait.  Sherlock. That’s just – what about the other shootings?  Greg’s men.  The investigation?  You’re saying that Greg thinks – he can’t think—”

“But he does, John.”  The detective’s lips tug upward in a grimace. “Our good Detective Inspector believes it’s entirely possible, even probable,  that my brother was the intended target all along and not himself at all.”

John stares at Sherlock’s long fingers as he idly tosses the mobile phone back and forth.  Back and forth.  A thought occurs.  He lifts his head.

“A few minutes ago … you sent a text? ”

Sherlock huffs, impatient.  “Donovan.  I asked her if there have, in fact, been any recent terminations or resignations. Although, you would think Lestrade’s lot would have thought of this before now.”

“And you expect Sally to be of help, given your working relationship – or lack thereof?”

Sherlock stares at his husband.  “Why not, John?  She has that information at her fingertips.  She is aware that Lestrade has asked me to look into these shootings.  Regardless of her feelings about my being involved, she is a professional and is bound to give me the answers I seek, if she has them.  Besides, I would hardly abandon the case now that my family is involved.” 

He brings both hands together under his chin in an attitude of prayer, his mobile phone sandwiched between them.  “If there have been any such occurrences, our Sergeant Donovan may have insights that Lestrade lacks, given his position as Detective Inspector.  I warrant that he is not as close to his people in the field as someone of Donovan’s rank, who is necessarily thrown in with her fellows on a daily basis. In fact, I may have to go below her in rank, to get the information I seek.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he thinks aloud.  “John, I may have erred.  Lestrade may be on to something with his supposition.  The thought had not occurred to me that Mycroft might have been the shooter’s intended target, given the circumstances of the first two shootings.”

John tilts his head, thinking.  And wonders what it cost the detective to admit he might have made a mistake in his thought processes. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Sherlock, if Greg is correct, if he’s right about this, that means we might have two investigations on our hands, instead of the one.  Sergeant _Tomlinson_ , was it?  And Sergeant Heath.  But Mycroft -- hell, it points, of course, to  -- ”

“Obvious, John.”  The detective rubs his fingers back and forth over his lips as he thinks aloud.  “We may be looking for two shooters with two entirely separate sets of motives.”

“Bugger,” breathes John Watson-Holmes.

**OooOooO**

Sally Donovan frowns at the few lines of text.  It is the second time she has read Sherlock’s request and it still irks.  She tosses her phone on the desk in front of her. It skitters a few inches, then catches in a stack of files, piled in haphazard fashion at her desk edge.

“What in bloody hell?  Does the freak think I have nothing better to do but answer his idiotic questions?” 

She glares at her phone as if it has personally affronted her.

“Donovan?  You still here?”

She looks up at the DI, who stands behind her, hands plunged in the pockets of his raincoat.  Sally takes in his haggard appearance, obvious exhaustion and bites back words of reproach.

Later for that.

“Sir, I was just waiting for the autopsy findings on Sergeant Heath.  They should be coming through any time now, although it’s pretty damned obvious. You?”

Lestrade nods.  He rubs a hand over his unshaven chin.  “Been a hell of a day.  Going to be an even longer night.  Thought a walk and a bite might help before I get back to it.”

Sally stands and stretches, Sherlock’s request momentarily forgotten.

“You’re coming back tonight, then?”

The DI’s rough tones grate in her ears.  “Have to.  Bloody bugger’s still out there.”

“Sir, we have an entire team on these shootings, working overtime, authorized by the Commissioner himself.  Half our people are at the last scene, pouring over it for the third time, before it gets too dark. They’ll be back in the morning.  The other half are divided between questioning the locals in Tomlinson’s neighborhood, as well as in Heath’s.  I’m waiting here for Dr. Hooper’s autopsy report. There’s been an incredible backlog, given the accident on the M4 a week back, so Hooper’s group is just now on it.  As for Holmes, his own people are –”

“Sally, tell me something I don’t know, okay?”

He looks into her dark eyes and notes the evident signs of stress and fatigue.  That makes two of them then.

 “Come on.  Molly’s report will still come through, whether you’re sitting here or not.  I’ll spring for dinner.  My treat.  You look like you could use a break, too.”

Sally scrambles for her mobile, purse and keys.  Together, the two make their way down the hall.  In the lift, Lestrade glares at the row of buttons.  He glances over at Donovan.  “What were you nattering on about earlier?”

If Sally feels affronted by the ‘nattering’ comment, she wisely keeps it to herself.

“Holmes, Sir.  Sherlock, I mean,” she says hastily, at Lestrade’s frown.  “Texting for more information, resignations and such.”

The lift door opens.  Greg turns to Sally.  “Sally, let’s make this clear.  Hirings, firings, whatever Sherlock needs, give it to him.  We can use all the help we can get at this point.”

“Not sure what the Commissioner would think about this _help_ , as you put it.”

“Let me worry about that. The sooner we solve this, the better it’ll be on all of us.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Outside the Yard, Lestrade glances down the street.  “Feel like a walk?  I could use the air.”

Sally hesitates.  “Sir, I’m not certain that’s wise. In fact, maybe we’d better get back inside and call for take-away.”

Lestrade stares at her, then crosses his arms over his chest.  “Sally, I’ve been in and out of this building a half dozen times since Mycroft’s – since the shooting.  No one’s taken a shot at me.  Not here.  Not in my home. And I don’t expect ‘em too.  Not in the middle of London.”

Donovan stares back. “Still, Sir.  Please.  Let me call a cab.”

“Oh for – come on.  Bloody bastard isn’t going to keep me from my dinner.  We’ll catch one at the corner.”

She tries – and fails – to out-stubborn her superior.

“Yeah, sure.  Whatever.” 

The two turn towards one of their favorite dinner spots. Sally frowns as she goes over employee records in her head. 

“Sir?  You said whatever the frea - Sherlock wants.  Hirings, firings.  Guess that means transfers, too?”

Lestrade pauses to wait for the light, his hands fisted in his pockets.  “Have we had any of those?  Other than Heath himself?”

She shakes her head.  The early evening breeze makes her curls bounce.  “None come to mind.  I’ll double-check as soon as we get back.”

The DI stops talking for a moment, considering.  “Sally, when did Sherlock’s text come through?”

She consults her mobile.  “About five minutes before you walked over.”

Same time as his text to the detective, putting forth his theory that Mycroft may have been the intended victim. Their messages must have crossed.  Mentally, Lestrade shrugs.

“Okay.  Yeah, all of it. Whatever he needs.  And Sally?”  Lestrade turns to regard Donovan.  “No need for you to return tonight. You’ve put in some hellacious hours on this case.  After we eat, I want you to call it a night.  Go home.  Get a fresh start in the morning. No need for both of us to lose any more sleep today.”

“I’m fine, Sir.  And if you’re coming back, so am I. Two heads better than one, and all.”

The light changes.  Lestrade and Donovan step off the curb.  The DI half turns toward her to reply.

A cacophony of sound, a blur of motion and the blare of car horns. 

A grey car, dark as the leaden skies overhead, careens around the corner, off kilter, as its tires fight for purchase on the rain-slick street. The car’s wheels straighten – and a full ton of murderous metal bears down on them both, in an oncoming rush of screaming brakes and tortured rubber.

**OooOooO**

Physical therapy is, as John Watson once told him, a right royal bitch.  But utterly necessary.  Still, he is hardly looking forward to the experience. 

Mycroft lifts his mobile with his left hand, as his right arm and shoulder have begun to throb and he tries to jostle them as little as possible.  He glances at the incoming number and smiles.  Anthea.

“Mycroft Holmes.  Good evening, my dear.”

“Good evening, Sir.  Your first therapy session is scheduled for tomorrow morning.  Your therapist has been cleared and he will be at there at 9:00.  Sharp. His photograph, ID and incidentals have been distributed to our people. Agent Wilkins will escort him in and remain throughout the session.”

“Thank you, my dear. As usual, you have been quite thorough.  I imagine my mother –”

 “Already done, Sir.  Mrs. Holmes specifically asked to be informed of all your scheduled appointments, medical and therapeutic.”

Mycroft sighs.  “Yes, of course. I expected nothing else.”

Her voice is brisk, yet apologetic.  “Yes.  Well, I’ve forwarded a synopsis of the day’s dispatches to your email.  And the entire script of the ambassador’s speech, as per your request, Sir.”

He leans back against a small mountain of pillows and shuts his eyes.  His right arm and elbow rest on a bolster placed snugly against his side.  He feels his muscles begin to relax, the pain to recede somewhat. 

“Thank you, Anthea.”

“My pleasure.  Sir, if I may?”

_Oh, Lord, here it comes._

Mycroft’s steel eyes open and he stares across his room at the beautifully matted and framed print that graces the far wall.  It is an expensive reproduction of _The_[ _Battle of Trafalgar_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Trafalgar) by [J. M.W. Turner](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._M._W._Turner).  Mycroft finds Turner’s masterful work visceral, utterly thrilling in its depiction of the famous naval victory.

At the same time, he knows nearly everything about it to be false, Turner having deliberately combined several aspects of the battle onto the canvas, encapsulating both time and events into one unforgettable work.

Truth – depicted through subterfuge.  Mycroft adores it.

He glances again at the signal flags, painted flying from entirely the wrong mast.  “ _England expects that every man will do his duty.”_

“Sir?”

Mycroft shakes himself.  “Sorry. You were saying?”

“Mycroft, you’re over-doing it. And the hell of it is, you know you’re working too hard, too soon.  Please, Sir.  Let me and my staff handle some of this.  At the very least, I can speak with the Ambassador and inform him that –”

“Yes, my dear, I know.  You are entirely right.  But if I stay in this accursed room in this accursed house much longer, I cannot be responsible for the consequences.  At least, working with you, I feel I am accomplishing something of use.”

She sighs.  “Yes, all right. Please try to rest.  Provided all goes well this week, you should be able to get out and about again.”

He smiles, and consciously tries to loosen his shoulder muscles.  Anything to ease the deep ache.

“Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Mycroft.”

He drops his mobile into his lap and shuts his eyes.

Physical therapy. Tomorrow morning.  9:00.  Sharp.

From down the hall, he hears Franklin’s quiet movements.

He wonders what Gregory is doing.

**OooOooO**

“Bleedin’ hell, Donovan!”

He keeps his hand, warm, steady, on Donovan’s arm.  This close, he can feel her shake as she struggles to get herself under control.

“Sally?”

“Sir.  Yes, Sir.  I’m – I’ll be okay.  Just give me a tick.”

“Of course.”  But he doesn’t remove his hand from her sleeve. She smiles at him, grateful.

Greg stays close to his second-in-command, while his mind whirls.

If it had been even one hour earlier, the car would never have made it through evening traffic. As it was, it’s a bloody miracle no one was killed or injured as it tore down the street and disappeared.

Damn it.  It happened so fast, he didn’t get the plate.  He was too busy yanking Donovan out of its path.

“Blimey!  All right there?”

Lestrade nods grimly at the helpful Samaritan.  “Yeah.  Thanks.”

Sally takes one last, deep breath, then puts a step between her and her DI.  She glances around at the small crowd that has appeared, then waves them away.  “We’re fine.  Thanks.”

Greg stares at her, his mouth a grim line.

“Well, guess that puts paid to my half-arsed theory.”

“What theory is that, Sir?”

He shakes his head.  “Never mind.  Donovan, let’s do this your way.  Go back to the Yard, call for take-away and –”

“Nail this bastard,” she finishes grimly.

He nods.  “Yeah.”

Greg pulls his mobile out of his coat pocket and dials a quick number.

Beside him, Sally talks into her mobile, reporting the near ‘accident’ and calling for a team to meet them at the Yard.

His call goes through.

 **“** John Watson.  Greg?”

**OooOooO**

Molly Hooper reads over her forensic autopsy report on Sergeant Wilson Heath.  It’s her own work, but her findings still puzzle her.  She frowns.  And picks up her phone.

“Carson.  Molly?”

“Yeah. Hi, it’s me.  Philip, I need a medical autopsy done on Sergeant Heath.  The sooner the better.”

“Medical?  Hell, Molly, you might have mentioned it earlier.  Why?  What’s the puzzle?”

Usually, her colleague’s American accent tickles her.  This evening, it doesn’t register.

“Something’s not right.”

A moment’s silence greets her words.  “Mol, I assume you have a damn good reason to request this, given the man’s brains were blown out the back of his head.”

“I – I think so.  I think the DI would want it done, once I speak with him.”

Aggrieved sigh.  “Okay.  Call off the hounds.  I’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks, Philip.  Tea?”

“Coffee.  And any java but yours, Sweetie.  No offense.  I’ll bring us both a cup.”

“Okay, then. Thanks.”

Molly hangs up, drops the report on her desk, then goes over to one of the refrigerated units.  She slides the drawer open.

She tucks an errant strand of hair behind one ear, then pulls back the sheet. 

“Okay, Sergeant.  What have you got to say for yourself ?”

She bends over the corpse.

**OooOooO**

His mobile buzzes in his lap.  For a few moments, Mycroft considers ignoring it.

Then he picks up his phone and glances at the number.

_Oh, bloody hell._

“Brother mine.  To what do I owe this--"

“Mycroft.  Shut up and listen.  It seems that someone has just tried their damnedest to run Lestrade down in the street.”

Despite his shoulder, Mycroft jerks upright.  His steel eyes blaze.

**OooOooO**


	8. PRISONER ON THE MOUNT

 

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**COMES A HORSEMAN**

skyefullofstars

**For** feliciaHM **who won me in the AO3 Auction and very kindly let me post her story chapter by chapter. (With the occasional interruption from Real Life.)  It was my pleasure and privilege, Sweetie !**

**Part two: PRISONER ON THE MOUNT.**

Ch. 4

**OooOooO**

Sherlock paces back and forth while John watches him from the comfort of his chair.

“Lestrade hasn’t called back yet, John. Intolerable.”

“I imagine the man’s a bit busy, Sherlock,” John says. “He and his team. Witnesses to question. Number plate to trace. It’ll take some time. Nearly being run down in the streets will do that to you.”

“Hmmm.” The detective pauses at their mantle and idly brushes one thumb over the skull.

“You know,” John says, “I’m not adverse to some legwork myself. Talk to some of the earlier witnesses.”

“Lestrade’s lot will have that in hand, John.” Sherlock taps the skull once, then turns to face the room. And his mate. “Besides, Lestrade himself was on the scene this time. And Donovan.”

“Not what I meant,” the soldier says smoothly. “Earlier witnesses, right? We’ve never directly spoken with the original witnesses to the first shooting. Tomlinson.”

Sherlock frowns, then looks at John. “The few witnesses were questioned, John. We have their statements in that mess there.” He waves one impatient hand toward the stack of files scattered over their kitchen table. “As much as I hate to admit it, Donovan’s lot seemed to be pretty thorough. They asked all the pertinent questions. Unless you feel they erred somewhere? Personal differences aside, Donovan appears marginally competent.”

John raises a sandy eyebrow. This admission is as far as Sherlock has ever come to saying that Sally knows her job and does it well. He shakes his head.

“No,” John says thoughtfully. “Sally’s damned good at what she does. But I don’t know all of her team, and I’m going bonkers just sitting here. There’s always someone who has something to add. These shootings have the Yard on edge, as well as your brother’s people. We’ve seen it before. Things get edgy and people get sloppy. Some evidence might have been passed over, that’s all I’m saying.”

There is a silence, made more profound by Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath. Suddenly, he lunges and grabs his soldier’s face with both hands. He leans in, plants a kiss on the thin lips, then pulls back to look into the dark blue eyes.   “John Watson-Holmes, I’ve said it before, as a conductor of light, you are magnificent.”

John kisses him back and laughs. “Er, okay then. What did I … oh, the ‘passed over’ bit?”

Sherlock nods. His mobile is out and in his eager hand. John watches as the long fingers fly over the tiny keys.

He finishes and pockets his mobile, then crosses his arms and looks at John.

“You want to tell me what that is all about?” John says.

“Later, John. Right now, we need to find a cab.” He crosses to their door and reaches out for his scarf where he flung it earlier, when Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs.

“Yoo, hoo, boys. You’ve got a visitor.”

“Up here, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock calls. He turns toward John. “Whoever this is, John, we need to get rid of them quick.”

“All right. But you might want to hear what they have –”

The hurrying footsteps stop Sherlock in his tracks.

“Mr.Holmes?”

The man who stands in front of them wears an overcoat, hastily thrown on. His sparse hair is windblown and his face is read and perspiring. “His wind can’t be very good,” thinks John, the doctor in him a bit alarmed.

Sherlock frowns. “We were just going out, Mr. – ”

“Sanderson,” the man gasps. “Excuse me. Half a moment.” He bends slightly to rest his hands on his knees. Sherlock looks at John and raises an impatient eyebrow.

John frowns at his husband, then turns toward their visitor.

“Mr. Sanderson, here. Sit down, please. Catch your breath.” He gently herds the overwrought man toward his own chair. Sherlock stands a way off, his arms crossed over his chest and watches his mate, clearly impatient with the interruption.

Seated, Sanderson nods at John. _(Medical doctor,_ deduces Sherlock, automatically _. Minor practice. Somewhere north, Glasgow? No, Edinburgh. Decent Balstaff. Had it years but kept in good repair. Not so minor a practice, then. In town to visit relatives, but something has upset him enough to rush here. Ah, three sheets of hastily folded notes crammed in his overcoat pocket. Most probably medical records of some sort. Children … no, nephews and nieces. Never married, our Doctor Sanderson. John will undoubtedly make him tea in an effort to calm him down and waste our precious time that could be better utilized chasing down this—)_

John glances up at him, as if he can read his mate’s thoughts all over his face.

 _Perhaps he can,_ thinks Sherlock.

“Give it a rest, Sherlock, ‘kay?” He bends over Sanderson, his strong fingers on the man’s pulse. “Get him a glass of water, please.”

“But, John, it is imperative –

“Water, Sherlock. Now.”

The detective huffs but goes into the kitchen to comply.

John nods, satisfied at the pulse under his fingertips. He nudges their coffee table forward and perches on the end to regard the red-faced man.

Sherlock hands John the water.

“Mr. Sanderson? Here, drink this. Slowly.”

Sanderson grabs the glass, nods his thanks and drinks. Finally, he sets the glass on the table at his elbow, takes one last deep breath and smiles. “There. That’s better.” He regards John who sits across from him, nearly his same height. “Thank you, er –”

“John Watson-Holmes,” John says.

“Doctor Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrects. He stands behind John and watches the man, exasperation painted over his face.

Sanderson just nods. “Doctor Watson – er, Holmes. Yes, of course. And you must be Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes?” He glances up at the detective, who notes the slight reddening of broken capillaries in the florid face. Heart patient then? Or hard drinker. Or both. To be fair, it is cold out.

“Obviously,” he drawls.

“Sherlock – just.” John shakes his head. “Sorry, Mr. –”

“Doctor actually. Padrick Sanderson, M.D. I came down from Edinburgh yesterday. I have – family in London.”

“Younger sister and two, no, three nephews. Transparent,” Sherlock mutters.

The pale blue eyes widen. “How could you possibly know that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Please, Dr Sanderson, don’t even get him started.”

John settles himself on the coffee table and clasps his hands in front of him. “Now then, Dr Sanderson, what can we do for you? You obviously came here in a hurry.”

Sanderson nods. “Had to, Dr Watson-Holmes. Saw it on the telly last night but it was pretty late and I was a bit knackered. Didn’t really pay any attention until this morning at breakfast. My sister gets the papers, you see.   And the kids had telly on again, of course. Minute I realized what I was reading and hearing, I had to come speak with you.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says drily. He glances at his watch, then fingers his mobile in his pocket. No answer to his text.

John makes a slight exasperated sound. “Saw what, Dr Sanderson? And please just call me John.”

Sanderson nods. “Padrick. Cindy – that’s my sister – “ he glances up at Sherlock, “Just calls me Paddy. Nephews do too.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock says. “Now that the social niceties are out of the way, what can we do for you, Dr Sanderson?” He emphasizes the ‘Dr’ and although Sanderson doesn’t seem to catch it, John does. The soldier frowns slightly.

“Well, it’s more what I can do for you?” Dr Sanderson hesitates slightly, then takes an old fashioned handkerchief out of a pocket and wipes his face. “Sorry. I had the cab let me off at the corner, it’s all this traffic, see? And I rushed the rest of the way. I meant to catch you before you went out.”

John nods slowly. “Okay. You have something you wish to tell us?”

Behind him, Sherlock shifts impatiently. John takes slow deep breathes in order to keep from standing and murdering his mate right where he stands. He smiles encouragingly. “Go on, please.”

Dr Sanderson nods. “I was afraid I’d miss you. “ He looks from John to Sherlock then back to John. “I had no way of knowing whether I should go to the police or to you but in the end, Cynthia – Cindy – ”

“The younger sister,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yes, exactly right. But how did you possibly know she’s my younger -- Cindy urged me to come straight to you, Mr. Holmes.” He looks again between the two men and John has no idea who he is addressing. Perhaps both of them?

“You see, I came about Wilson, er, Heath. Sergeant Wilson Heath?”

Sherlock stops his impatient movements and becomes quite still. “Yes?”

Dr Sanderson nods again. “I’ve got it all right here. But I can’t hand it over without knowing it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if I can give it to the police, either. I came to you, Mr. Holmes,” -- he glances up and there is no mistake that he now speaks directly to Sherlock – “because Cindy told me you could advise me.” He pulls the papers from his overcoat pocket and flattens them with a shaking palm.

He glances at John and the ex-soldier sees the sudden shrewdness in Sanderson’s gaze.  

“Doctor -Patient confidentiality and all.” He flattens the wrinkled pages. John is close enough to recognize medical records when he sees them. “It’s just…since Wilson … since he is dead, murdered the news says, well, I’m not sure where I stand now. With these you see.”

He waves the pages slightly, then drops them to his lap again. And places one protective palm over them.

Sherlock takes an eager step forward but John raises his hand, which stops Sherlock in his tracks.

“As I understand it, Dr Sanderson, you have medical records in your possession, I presume Sergeant Heath’s medical records. You were his doctor, then?”

Sanderson nods again. His breathing has completely settled down but his posture remains upright, tense. To tell the truth, the tall figure who looms over them makes him nervous. He decides to direct his comments to the sympathetic medical man who sits in front of him.

“That’s right, for the last ten, no, make that nearly eleven years.   He became my patient when he joined the police force, East Lothian, I believe. Standard yearly checkups and all that. He kept coming’ to me over the years. We had a good patient – doctor relationship. Always one with a good story, was Wilson…er, Mr. Heath. I liked him. Liked his sister. Which made it a bloody shame when I had to sit him down and give him the news.”

A bell goes off in John’s head. A similar phrase used in his army days comes to mind. “Deliver the good news… .” Only in that case, it meant to decimate, to destroy the enemy. He mentally shrugs the thought away and puts his attention back on the nervous medical man in front of them.

Behind him, John hears the impatient rustle of his mate’s hands as he plunges them into his trouser pockets.

“Dr Sanderson, you are here to ask my advice on whether or not the medical records you have in your possession for Sergeant Heath can now be turned over with impunity, since the man is deceased?”

Sanderson nods miserably at Sherlock’s dry assessment. “That’s exactly it, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock moves to stand at John’s shoulder. The soldier can nearly feel his husband’s lean body vibrate with intensity.

“And you deem these records to be of importance now…why, exactly?”

Dr Sanderson sighs. He rustles the typed sheets between his nervous fingers. Then glances across at John.

“I don’t…I’m not exactly certain if –”

John moves to reassure the man, as Sherlock places one cool hand on his near shoulder. “John. Please.” He straightens up to his full height. “Dr Sanderson, you obviously felt the situation warrants your calling your office in Edinburgh, asking them to email you those records you now hold, printing them out on your sister’s printer, which needs a new cartridge from the looks of it, then paying exorbitant cab prices to rush over here to consult me. I suggest you follow your instincts and hand the records over.”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

“John, please. The man is dead. What can it possibly hurt?”

He glances at Dr Sanderson. “Dr Sanderson? If the information you have might help us apprehend your former patient’s murderer… .”   His deep voice trails off to let Sanderson draw his own conclusions.

“That’s just it,” Padrick Sanderson sighs. He glances at the pages in his hands again, then looks across at John.

“I hated to find out that Wilson was dead. It stunned me when I heard it last night. And again this morning. I’d known him so long, you see. Then I read about the investigation, the two – no, three shootings now, is it? But I canna’ find it in myself to be that broken up over it.”

John frowns. He leans forward, his hands clasped. “And why is that, Dr Sanderson?”

Sanderson shakes his head. “That’s a pretty horrid thing to say, now, isn’t it? But it’s the truth, Dr Watson-Holmes. Mr. Holmes.” He glances up at Sherlock.

“But … considering the alternative that Wilson was facing, being shot in the head is preferable, right? At least, it was quick. Although I canna’ believe I hear myself saying this.”

Padrick Sanderson looks from one man to the other.

John is utterly silent. Behind him, Sherlock clears his throat, then holds out his hand.

With a mournful look, Dr Sanderson rises and hands the medical records over.

**OooOooO**

Molly Hooper looks up at her colleague.   She reads over one particular passage of his report, then glances again at her own notes. Finally, she lets them fall to her desk and drops her head to her hands. She groans softly.   “I should have caught this immediately, Phillip.”

“No way in hell either of us could have caught this one,” he says in his dry American accent. “It’s hardly standard procedure to do a full medical, when a stiff comes in with half his skull blown off. Cause of death was pretty obvious, I’d say.” His tone softens. “Mol, seriously. No one is going to hold your toes to the fire on this. There is no way you could have known this. In fact, it’s damn brilliant that you caught it afterward.”

She lifts her head and looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. Her hair is pulled back in its customary ponytail, but strands have escaped and blow around her forehead. She impatiently brushes them away from her eyes. “Really? I mean … do you think so?”

“Absolutely. Cut yourself some slack.” He shrugs.   “What do you intend to do with this now that you know? And what possible difference can it make in the long run?”

She frowns. “I have to tell the Detective Inspector, obviously. And Sherlock will want to know. I know he’s helping out on this one.”

“Okayy,” Carson says, “but I’d be damned if I’d turn over this info to anyone but the D.I. .”

Molly tosses her hair back and stands, suddenly impatient. “I’ll call Greg first. See if he can use this. And ask him if Sherlock needs to know.”

“He’s a funny one, that Holmes guy. But damn smart,” he adds quickly, as mini storm clouds gather in Molly Hooper’s eyes.

She settles back down. “ _Like a kitten_ ,” he thinks. “ _Say something against Sherlock Holmes and it’s like rubbing her fur the wrong way.”_

“If there’s nothing else?”

Her tone is suddenly contrite and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Phillip. I know it’s been – hard – this week. Go home and get some rest. It’s – it’s fine. You’ve been great to come help with this.”

He stands and grins. “Long week for both of us, Mol. But this one is pretty interesting, I have to admit.”

He glances at his report on the desk in front of them. “Funny. You could almost say he got off lucky in the long run.”

She nods absently and goes back to her notes. He leaves her alone in the lab. She hesitantly picks up her mobile, then pauses before she selects the number. Lestrade … or Sherlock?

**OooOooO**

John reads over the medical report Dr Sanderson brought with him. He frowns, then lifts his head.

“He was dying.”

“Yes,” Sanderson says. He takes a sip of tea, then sets it aside. And leans forward. “You know I would never even barge in like this, Dr Watson-Holmes, except for my visit with my sister. It just made sense that I come direct to you with this.”

Sherlock continues to pace back and forth across their living area, his face a mask of indifference. John knows he is thinking and the lack of facial expression means he’s visiting his mind palace. He leaves him to it for a moment, while he rereads a section of Heath’s diagnosis.

John glances over at his mate, as he does his best to wear a hole in their oriental carpeting. “Sherlock? You back with us?”

Sanderson stares from one man to the other, perplexed.

The detective shakes his head, distracted. He holds his mobile between his hands and walks to the window to glance out, then comes back to the middle of the room.

He pierces Sanderson with his bright gaze. “Dr Sanderson, exactly how close to Sgt. Heath’s transfer to London did you apprise him of his medical condition?”

“Thought you might ask that, “ Sanderson brings out a small notebook from an inner pocket. He flips through it to a few pages marked with a paper clip. “About 2 weeks, more or less,” he says.

Sherlock nods. “And you knew Heath was moving to London?”

Sanderson shakes his head. “Not at all. I had no idea until his sister’s caregiver told me about the move. When I heard, I naturally thought he had come here to consult a specialist. It never entered my mind that he had accepted a transfer to –”

Sherlock whips around and Sanderson stops speaking.

“His sister?”

Sanderson glances from Sherlock to John, who remains perched on the edge of the coffee table, his own cup of tea cold in his hand.

“Er, yes. Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with -”

Sherlock interrupts him impatiently. “And this sister, she lives in Edinburgh?”

“Not exactly,” Sanderson says slowly. He sits upright and sighs. “Mr. Holmes, now we enter into patient confidentiality and since Wilson’s sister is living –”

“Is she under your care, Dr Sanderson?” Sherlock demands. He stops next to their guest and glares down at him.

Sanderson clears his throat. “Not since she was a small child.”

“Then you will have no qualms in giving me the name of this colleague of yours? Or at least tell me his or her area of expertise?”

Sanderson glances at John, who smiles encouragingly.

“Anything you can tell us at this point, Dr Sanderson, might help. We have a murderer to catch. Sherlock is well known at the Yard and Detective Inspector Lestrade himself has asked him to help with this case.”

Sanderson frowns. “All right. I understand all that. I don’t see how this can hurt her or Wilson at all. But I don’t see how it can help either.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Sherlock says.

Sanderson sighs. “All right. In for a penny… well, Mariah Heath is special _.”_

John tilts his head. “In what way, Dr Sanderson?”

Sanderson grimaces. “She was born with Down Syndrome. She’s already lived into her mid-twenties. Wilson Health has taken care of her since their parents passed away. She lived with him until … until recently.”

“And what happened to change that?” Sherlock asks. His grey eyes narrow.

Sanderson shrugs. “Mariah began to experience high frequency hearing loss as she entered her 20’s. She was recently diagnosed with heart problems. Coupled with certain adjustment problems and other health issues just coming to light, Wilson was afraid he could not continue to give her the care she needed. He became fearful of leaving her alone and live-in help has not always been reliable. He had a fulltime job which demanded more and more of his attention. And he was growing ill, tired. Although at the time, no one suspected he was as ill as he – was.”

Sanderson looks at both men with tired blue eyes. “He wanted the best for her and after consulting with a colleague of mine, she was placed where she could get the help she needed. Wilson was very regular in his visits to his sister. He loves – loved – her dearly.”

He glances up at Sherlock. “Of what use is this information, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock stares at Sanderson. His fingertips tap against his mobile phone. John recognises the signs and remains silent. Sanderson looks from one man to the next, as if he will say something else, but John just shakes his head.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.” Sherlock paces to the mantelpiece and stares at the skull for a moment. Suddenly, he whips around so quickly that Sanderson startles and lets his cold tea slop over.

“I assume that Sergeant Wilson made arrangements to care for his sister financially, should anything happen to him?”

Sanderson wipes quickly as his lap where the tea has spilled. He nods. “I would assume so. Although to be brutally honest with you, Mr. Holmes, her care is rather expensive at this point. And becoming more so. He had applied for financial aid. He told me this when he – when he came to me complaining of certain symptoms.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes alight. “And you performed all the necessary tests and that’s when you discovered Heath’s underlying condition?”

Sanderson gives the tea stains up as a lost cause. He nods. “Yes. That’s right.”

Sherlock frowns. “One last question, Dr Sanderson, and then I’ll ask you to kindly leave us alone for the afternoon. We’ll make certain that Detective Inspector Lestrade gets these records.” He waves at the sheets of paper, currently being held in John’s hands.

Sanderson glances at John.   “All right,” he says. “What’s your question, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock comes to stand in front of Sanderson, his hands plunged in the pockets of his designer trousers. John hears his fingers as they tap a tiny rhythm against the plastic of his mobile phone.

“What would happen to Mariah Heath if – _when_ – Wilson Heath died?”

Sanderson looks startled. “I don’t –“ he glances from John, up to Sherlock. “I have to admit, Mr. Holmes, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. As I told you, when I heard from Mariah’s caregiver that Wilson had come to London, I naturally thought he was here to consult someone for his condition. The thought never occurred to me he had accepted a transfer, or that he intended to remain working up until – until his death.”

Sherlock nods. “You’ve been very helpful, Dr Sanderson. Now if you don’t mind, please leave.”

“Sherlock,” John says.

“No, it’s all right,” Dr Sanderson says. “I need to get back.” He rises and extends a hand to John, who takes it. “I’m glad I could be of some assistance. And you promise that those records will –”

“You have my word, Dr Sanderson.” Sherlock says. He turns away, and dismisses the man as he goes to stand in front of the window.

Sanderson nods. He pulls his overcoat around him tightly and walks to the door. “Well then, thank you, er --”

“John,” says John warmly. “And thank you again, Dr Sanderson. We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, of course,” Sanderson says. He glances over at Sherlock, who remains standing at the window, lost in thought. He leaves. John stands and watches him as he descends the stairs, listens for the opening and closing of the front door, then turns to his mate.

“Well, that was rude.”

“Was it?” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yup. Kinda.” John looks at the medical records in his hands, then drops them on the coffee table and crosses to Sherlock.

“Okay. Want to tell me what’s going on here?”

Sherlock ignores the question for a moment. He continues to stare down at Baker Street below. Without turning, he says, “John. We have three people, three bullets.  Two of the shootings obviously fatal.  The first two bullets of the same caliber, but not from the same weapon.  The third ... something else entirely.   What strikes you about this?”

“Same as we figured before. Either we’re looking for two snipers or just the one, with two or more weapons,” John says. “Not unusual for them to use more than one. It’s left enough a bit of a trail shooting both Tomlinson and Heath with the same type of bullet.  Maybe the shooter, if we are looking at just the one, wants to mix things up.  Cause confusion.  A pro or someone who wants to come across as one.”

Sherlock turns. He stares at John. “Or someone who wants to come across as one.”

John thinks. “Tomlinson was shot elsewhere and his body dumped. Same with Heath. And that’s the location where Mycroft was shot.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock murmurs again, lost in thought.

John frowns as he thinks. “Sherlock, what are you suggesting?”

“Smoke and mirrors, John. First we assume we have one shooter. And that in the third instance, my brother was not the intended target, but rather it was Lestrade, the bullet having gone astray. Then we wonder if, in fact, Mycroft _was_ the target all along. And now, here we are, full circle. Sanderson says that Heath had an extremely ill sister. That he, himself, was dying. That’s interesting. _Why_ is that interesting? Oh!”

“Oh, John!” The slight intake of breath is a dead giveaway. Sherlock’s eyes, a moment ago pale grey, have shifted to greyish-green. The remarkable lips turn upwards in the briefest of smiles.

John regards the arresting profile for a moment. “You’ve solved it, haven’t you?” he says softly.

Sherlock turns and smiles at his husband. “Yes, John. At least, I know why Tomlinson and Heath were killed.” He fingers his mobile phone. “Now if only I could get a response to my question. If Donovan weren’t being so pig-headed.”

A muted ping announces Sherlock has a text. He quickly fishes his mobile out of his pocket and glances at the screen.  

“Donovan. Finally,” he says. “John, get your coat.”

John hurries to comply. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and reaches for his own coat. “Lestrade’s office.  I very much fear..."  his voice trails off and he doesn't voice his thoughts.

John frowns.

“The Met?” John says. “Why don’t you just call?”

“I will do in the cab. And we don’t have a lot of time,” Sherlock says. “Hurry, John.”

John rushes down the stairs behind Sherlock. On the street, his personal taxi magnet holds up one elegant hand, and a cab slides to the curb.

“Someday, you’re going to have to tell me how you do that,” John says.

“Get in, John. Quickly.”

Sherlock barks at the cab driver, “New Scotland Yard. And hurry.”

“Can only go so fast in this traffic, mate,” the driver intones.

Sherlock looks out the window, then turns to John.

“Try to reach Lestrade, will you? I want to keep my mobile clear.”

“Okay.” John thumbs a well-used button on his mobile, waits for the ring. He frowns. “Nothing. Greg’s not picking up.”

“Try Donovan,” Sherlock demands.

John stares at his mobile screen. “Still nothing.”

“Damn it.” Sherlock lifts his own mobile and sends a quick text. He then lowers his phone and stares at the floor of the cab.

“Aren’t we going to call your brother?” John asks.

“Why?” Sherlock says. “I’m trying to save Lestrade’s life. What in blazes does my brother have to do with it? His home is well-guarded. As is he. Besides, this individual we’re after isn’t responsible for Mycroft’s shooting. Trust me on this, John.”

John frowns again. “Okay,” he says. “But I’d feel better if we called Mycroft.”

“Call him if you wish, John. But I’ll be damned if I know what you intend to tell him.”

John hesitates, his finger over the button over the keypad. Sherlock just shrugs and stares out the window, his mobile clutched in one hand. From time to time, he tries Lestrade’s number again.

No response.

**OooOooO**

“Sally, what have we got so far?”

Sally taps her pen against her pad. “Number plate’s been run. Vehicle was reported stolen late last evening from a public lot. It checks out.”

Greg Lestrade nods. “Okay. CCTV? Witness accounts?”

Sally glances up at him. “Male, light skinned, dark hair, average height and build. That’s all. It happened so fast. We’ve slowed it down but no discernible facial features. No joy on recognition software either. Not enough to go on.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Bloody hell.” He picks up a pen and drums a small rhythm against his blotter.

Her mobile pings. She glances at the screen. And drops her phone on the desk in disgust.

Lestrade lifts his head.

“What?”

“Just the frea - just Sherlock Holmes, sir.”

“And?”

Sally frowns, clearly upset.

“Sally?”

Sally looks at him. “He wants to know if any officer of this division has been passed over for promotion this year.”

Greg’s pen stops it’s tiny beat. He cocks his grey head at her.

“Remind me. Do we have anyone who fits that?”

Sally tightens her hand into a fist. “Sir! We are in the middle of an investigation. Someone just tried to run you down in the street. I don’t see why I should cater to Sherlock Holmes’ every wish. Sir,” she adds defiantly.

 _Not again._ Greg rubs a hand over his eyes. “Sally, we’ve been over this. If you have the info he needs, just send it to him.”

She looks at him. Then, defeated, she picks up her mobile. “Yes sir.” Her fingers tap out a quick response. She hits Send.   Then stands and stretches.

“I’m going to get us some tea. We could both use a cup.”

“Sally?”

She turns. “Yes sir?”

“You didn’t answer my question. Who was passed over? I remember the one, Irving or some such?”

“Just the two, Sir. PC Irwin, who you deemed a bit too young and inexperienced yet. And the head Superintendent agreed with you.”

He nods tiredly. “I remember. And?”

She grits her teeth. “Barclay,” she mutters.

Greg sits back and stares at her. “Barclay? The same man you took into Mycroft Holmes’ hospital room that day?”

She turns toward him. “Yes sir.”

“You never explained, exactly, why you thought it necessary to take a uniformed officer along with you to obtain Mr. Holmes’ statement, a statement I had already received by the way?”

Sally looks back at him steadily. He can see the strain she’s been under, the lines around her eyes which speak of sleepless nights and endless hours poring over evidence from the shootings.

“Donovan?”

“Sir, if I can speak off the record?”

“No, you cannot. Just answer the question, Sally.”

“Very well. Scott Barclay is a fine policeman and would make an even finer officer. I don’t understood why he was overlooked this go-round. His test scores were excellent. I know our budgeting is tight, but we could use another good officer. We had met a few times, here and there, for tea and coffee. When he came to me to ask for my advice, well, I wanted to give him exposure to cases that were a bit more high profile.”

He stares at her. “And that’s why you took him along.”

“I didn’t – and don’t – see how it could possibly hurt.”

“And of course, goes without saying, you felt that having Mr. Holmes’ younger brother working the case did not reflect well on our division.”

She nods, suddenly miserable. “Yes, Sir. And why I have taken him on other cases with me, just the few.”

Greg runs a hand over his face and stares at her. “Damn it, Sally, this is not good. You’ve put me in a ruddy fix here.”

“I know, Sir. And now that I think about it, maybe it was poor judgment. But it’s a moot point, at best, since yesterday.”

Greg leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “And what happened yesterday?” He tries but is not able to entirely keep his anger and frustration out of his voice.

She shakes her curls. “He resigned. You have it among the pages on your desk. I just haven’t had a chance to talk with you about it yet.”

“He quit the Yard?” Greg says. “Why on earth, when he’s tried so hard for promotion?”

“I can answer that,” a stern voice says. Sally jerks once. And odd look crosses her face. Then she slowly moves forward toward Greg, her movements stilted. As the DI watches, she lifts her hands up and away from her body.

A uniformed police officer comes into view, and Lestrade sees the weapon he holds, now carefully trained on Sally Donovan’s back. He pokes her again in the spine, none too gently.

“That’s right, Sal,” he mimics the DI’s rough tones. “Just move over there and sit down like a good girl, all right? You can lower your hands now. Just keep them where I can see them.”

She complies, her eyes wide in shock. And indignation.

Incensed, Greg Lestrade sits up straight in his chair. “What in bloody hell –”

“Language, if you please, Detective Inspector.”

Ex-officer Scott Barclay smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile.

“In answer to your question, Detective Inspector, I quit because you might say I was offered a more, shall we say, profitable line of work. In fact, this is my last day or night on the job. No offense, Sergeant Donovan. You’ve been aces, really. But it’s time to wrap this up and move on.”

**OooOooO**

“I refuse to believe the cameras picked up nothing.  The vehicle obviously exists.  Therefore, the driver exists.  Unless, per chance, it was driven by thought control?”

Mycroft grips the plastic housing of his mobile in his good hand and shuts his eyes, the better to gather his thoughts.

“It nearly succeeded in running down two officers, on a busy London street, in full view of numerous spectators.  And all this, not two blocks from New Scotland Yard.  There were cameras on both corners.  And you’re telling me that we’ve got nothing.”

Anthea sighs. She’s exhausted. And the day is not nearly done yet. She leans her head on one hand.  And tries not to think of the paperwork that still awaits.

 “Yes sir,” she says wearily. “That’s what I’m saying.  The plates check out as being stolen.  We’ve conducted a thorough background on the owner of those plates and she has been cleared.  The witnesses we found saw nothing, other than a speeding grey car.  As for CCTV, even at slow speed, the tapes show nothing but a vague outline.  Between the tapes and the witness accounts, we have a cursory description at best.  White male, dark hair, cut short.  Appears to be average height but since he ducked down as he rounded the corner, there’s not much to go on. People seemed more concerned with the D.I.’s and Sergeant Donovan’s well-being then trying to ID the perpetrator.”

Mycroft rubs his good hand over his eyes and stares at nothing.  “Nothing on facial recognition.”

“No, Sir.”

“This is unacceptable.  Find this driver.”

“We’re doing our best.”

“Well, it’s not good enough.”And this negative thought gives him pause, as he never thought to say this about his own people.

“I’ll call you as soon as we have a viable lead, Sir.  And we’ve sent two agents to check up on Detective Inspector Lestrade.  As you requested, he will be followed as soon as he leaves the Yard, but at a discrete enough distance that he shouldn’t be able to recognise he’s being tailed.”

“Fine.  Now find that driver.” 

Mycroft hangs up and tosses his mobile onto the bedside table.  He shifts his position, then huffs and uses his good arm to scramble out from the covers.  He’s sick to death of bed and sick to death of this room and bloody well sick of his townhouse.

He awkwardly pulls on his dressing gown, and leaves to find Franklin. What is keeping the man? He’s past hungry. As he walks out, he makes certain his mobile is in the pocket of his dressing gown. Perhaps he can reach Gregory in time for the D.I. to join him for a late meal. With any luck, his mother has decided to call it a day and will not call him anymore this day.

He hears a distant door open but thinks nothing of it. Most probably Franklin or one of his men, come to deliver a dispatch. Or his mother.

Please, God, not his mother.

**OooOooO**

“We’re all going to leave, nice ‘n easy,” Barclay says.

He gestures with the gun. Lestrade stands, wary.

“You first, Detective Inspector. Sergeant Donovan? Behind him and in front of me, if you please. That’s right. Out to the lift, then down to the car park. One step at a time, hmm?”

Lestrade frowns. He moves marginally closer to Donovan.

“What do you hope to accomplish, Barclay? You’re on surveillance, man. You’ll never get out of here with that gun.”

“That’s where you’re more’n dead wrong, _Detective_ Inspector,” he grimaces. “Cameras in your office are all taken care of. I saw to that earlier. Easy peasy, you might say. As for this,” he gestures with the gun in his hand, “once we leave here, no one will pick up on this. But believe me, it’s not leaving my hand. And we’re getting the hell out of the Yard. You might say I do my best work in isolated areas.”

He stands back and tilts his head. “Okay, Lestrade. Mobile on the desk. That’s right. Right next to Donovan’s. Now come on over here. You, Donovan. Behind Lestrade. There’s a girl.”

Greg moves slowly to the door.

“And for Gods’ sakes, lower your hands. Make no mistake about it, Inspector. I’ll shoot her in the spine. And then yourself. I’m hoping’ you don’t make that necessary.”

“Then you’ll be caught, as well,” Greg says, his mind racing.

“I don’t think so. Two officers shot at close range in the Yard itself? Bound to be a bit of a melee. Lots of excitement. People running’ round like chickens. I’ll just be another cop, doing my duty. No. I don’t think I’m in any danger. But it does lend a bit of excitement to the proceedings.”   He gestures. “Okay, out you both go. Lift’s just down the hall. Careful now. Walk normal. Don’t make any obvious moves or the Sergeant here, well, I’d hate to see her left a paraplegic, hmm?”

Lestrade frowns. He walks carefully toward the door of his office, mindful that Sally follows.

Behind them on the desk, their mobiles begin to ring. And ring.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft makes his slow way toward the kitchen in his robe and slippers, mindful of the deep throb in his shoulder. Bloody hell, but the blasted thing hurts. Then he remembers his first physical therapy session, scheduled for the early morning. And stifles a groan.

Franklin better have prepared something decent, hot and filling. And plenty of it. He could use a bit of comfort now. He fingers his mobile in his pocket. Perhaps he should go ahead and call Gregory. The man is still at the Yard, Anthea assured him. Means another late night working on this blasted case.

He could insist Gregory bring his files and notes and they could pore over them together, over a good meal. Perhaps some wine, at least for Gregory. He’s mindful he’s not allowed alcohol while on the pain killers. Still, it’s an idea. And his own people will follow Lestrade. Which will assure he arrives safely. A very good idea.

Yes. That is exactly what he will do. Call Gregory. Insist he come over to share a meal. And perhaps, share other things, as well?

He steps into the brightly lit kitchen. “Franklin? What is it, man?”

Franklin sits slumped over the food prep counter, still propped on his stool, his white head fallen forward, his eyes closed. Mycroft can see that he breathes and looks for all the world as if he has fallen asleep at his task. Something … a slip of paper …lies on the table next to the sleeping man’s hand.

What in bloody hell?

A slight movement, accompanied by a faint hiss, the merest susurrus. A truly dreadful smell hits him in the nasal cavities. His eyes water.

Mycroft’s instincts thrum. He lunges in an attempt to reach the small button hidden under the near counter edge. But injured as he is, he’s not fast enough and he falls as if pole-axed. He feels someone grab him by the waist before he hits the floor, but the sensation is deadened, remote, as if it happens to someone else’s body, not to his.

In the three remaining seconds before he loses consciousness, a wave of regret sweeps over him. So much he’ll never know.

_Gregory._

**OooOooO**

“John, are you armed?” Sherlock pauses just at the main entrance to the Yard, and half turns toward John, who nearly bumps into him, the movement is so sudden.

“Right, Sherlock. And how do you expect me to get my gun past security, let alone the detectors? Every bloody alarm in the building would sound.”

“I merely asked, John,” Sherlock sniffs. He continues into the building, and makes his way hurriedly toward the lifts. John walks briskly to keep up.

Sherlock pushes the button. The two men watch the lights. The bell rings. The doors open.

And Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade barges out, straight into Sherlock, who stumbles, loses his footing on the highly polished floor and falls backward, with one highly incensed D.I. nearly on top of him.

Lestrade curses and puts out a hand to the tiles, twists and pushes himself to his feet. Sherlock struggles to rise. His pale eyes widen when he sees who stands in the lift behind Donovan. He manages a single word of warning.

“John!”

John Watson-Holmes lunges forward. In one impossibly choreographed movement, he yanks Sally Donovan out of the door of the lift, away and down out of the line of fire. She loses her footing, tangles with Lestrade as he manages to rise and together they go down in a heap, right on top of the world’s only consulting detective. Who falls backward again with a frustrated groan.

“John!”

In a blur of momentum, John latches onto the wrist that holds the gun, jerking it out and twisting it to the side with one sudden snap. The gun hits the floor with a metallic ring. There’s a highly satisfying pop as Scott Barclay’s ulna breaks, followed immediately by a sharp cry of pain.

Then John’s arm swings.

Engulfed as he is in myriad arms and legs, none of them belonging to him, Sherlock Holmes recognises the sound of an angry fist as it connects solidly with a human jaw. “Excellent,” he mutters.

Barclay goes down - hard. And stays there.

“Bloody hell!” From Donovan, as she attempts to extricate herself from the two men tangled up with her on the floor. _God, it’s the freak! And she’s nose to nose with him._

“Good on you, mate.” From Lestrade, who attempts to extricate himself from his Sergeant ( _at_ _least she’s not wearing those spiked heels today_ , he thinks, grateful for small favors.)

“If you’re done playing the hero, John, a bit of help?” From Sherlock, who divides his wounded glares of annoyance between the two New Scotland Yard officers, both of whom are just managing to rise and get the hell off him.

“Jesus, I forgot how much that hurts!” From John, as he shakes out his right hand. He glances at Barclay, who is well and truly unconscious, then stoops to retrieve the gun. Before going to help Sherlock, he checks the safety, and slips the weapon into his jacket pocket.

He grimaces at the sound of ringing alarms and pounding feet, as officers from all over the Met rush to their aid. They’re nearly surrounded by a circle of Yarders before John can get his bearings.

“I’ll take that if you don’t mind, Captain Watson,” a tall man says, at John’s elbow. It is only the former soldier’s training that keeps him from jumping at the sudden, unexpected voice.

John looks up into the warm brown eyes of one of Mycroft’s agents. He recognises the man, nods and hands him the gun. The agent takes it gingerly between finger and thumb.

“ _Bit late for that,”_ John thinks. Prints will be a bitch but none of it could be helped.

John turns toward the three who have finally managed to get to their feet. Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan stare at him, then as one turn to look at the unconscious Barclay on the floor.

John grins. “If the three of you are quite done waltzing with each other, I think we need to get this guy to a holding cell.”

Sherlock looks back at John.

Then everyone starts to speak at once.

**OooOooO**

“It all fell into place once Dr Sanderson mentioned that Sergeant Wilson Heath was dying. And that his parents had passed away years earlier, leaving him the care of his younger sister, who herself was born with myriad health problems. Problems which necessitated him finding professional care for her, which does not come cheap.”

Greg Lestrade sits on a chair, in the exact center of one of the long tables in an otherwise unoccupied interrogation room.   Sally Donovan sits beside him, a notepad in front of her. A digital tape recorder sits on the table in front of them. The recorder is voice activated. Despite this, Sally insists on taking notes. Besides, she can’t bear to look the D.I. in the eyes right now. For once, she doesn’t wish the freak would rush his deductions. She is not looking forward to being along with Lestrade, once the other two leave.

John sits at one end of the long table. His legs are stretched out in front of him and he divides his attention between watching his husband’s long legs eat up the tile flooring and looking morosely at the scuffed toes of his worn army boots. He nurses a truly terrible cup of tea. The doctor is tired and wants to go home. Nevertheless, he listens to his husband as he unravels the mystery they’ve chased for nearly 30 very long days.

Sherlock stops his pacing and spreads his hands. “Why Tomlinson? For that matter, why Heath? And why the attempted shooting which ended up wounding Mycroft rather than its intended target, Lestrade?”

Greg watches the detective, a slight frown on his face. He cannot remember ever being this tired before. _Well and truly knackered,_ he thinks. But he gives Sherlock his undivided attention. Hopefully, the git will forego his usual grandstanding and just get on with it.

There’s still time, after all, to drop by a certain government officials townhouse … just to wish him a good evening, of course. Maybe Mycroft will give him some of that incredible tea he had earlier in the week.

“From the very first, I suspected a disgruntled member of the Yard. But none of the leads panned out. Sergeant Donovan was kind enough to give me a list of recent terminations, there weren’t many, but nothing clicked. Then my – then Mycroft was shot. Everyone, even Mycroft himself, suspected that you were the shooter’s intended target.”

Lestrade shifts uncomfortably in his chair, as a hot flood of shame washes over him. John looks up at him and grins sympathetically. Greg nods at the former soldier, then looks at Sherlock, who ignores the small exchange and continues talking.

Sherlock’s elegant hands trace invisible paths in the air. “There were no discernible clues at the site of Mycroft’s shooting, which frankly screamed professional. Both Sergeant Tomlinson and the Sergeant Heath were shot elsewhere and their bodies dumped afterwards. Which spoke to someone trying to cover their tracks, as undoubtedly there was a great deal of blood at the scene of each shooting. Hence, the bodies being dumped as far away from the original crime scene as possible.”

Sherlock pauses for a second to let his audience catch up. “But no help there, either. No prints on either body that did not belong there. No bragging notes left at the scene or transmitted to the Yard. Nothing. We had virtually nothing to go on. But two dead bodies, both shot in the head, and one nearly dead, high-ranking government official.”

Greg’s eyes widen and he tries to force that vision out of his mind. Suddenly, he wants very much to see Mycroft. His fists tighten in his pocket. Beside him, Donovan dutifully scratches out her notes.

Sherlock goes on. “Everything pointed to a highly professional assassin. But what was the motive? We had no motive. Then John said something that changed the direction of my investigation. What if we were looking for two shooters and not just the one? We still had no motive, for Tomlinson’s and Heath’s murders. But this new train of thought did make for a more tidy case. It grouped the first two murders together. Both men worked under Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. Both were shot in the head at close range, although with different weapons.”

Sherlock pauses and looks straight at John as he continues.

“Mycroft was not shot in the head, but in the shoulder, an extremely painful injury, but not ultimately incapacitating, provided medical assistance is rendered swiftly. And from a long way off. This new line of thought meant we might have a second shooter, whose target _was_ Mycroft Holmes and not Lestrade at all. If we did have two shooters, than that meant the second assassin never meant to kill but to wound. The injury was meant as a warning. Obviously, a professional would have had no trouble in killing Mycroft Holmes where he stood.”

Sherlock stops again and John lifts his head. Dark blue eyes meet pale grey. John sees Sherlock’s throat convulse as he swallows.

“Setting aside Mycroft’s injury for the moment, I decided to concentrate on the first two murders. We had two dead bodies. Post mortems revealed nothing we didn’t expect. After all, a bullet to the brain is rather telling, don’t you think?” Sherlock spreads his hands out, as a musician in front of an audience.

“ _Just get on with it, you freak,”_ Donovan thinks. She shifts in her seat but continues to write her notes. She can’t remember the last time she slept more than two hours since this case started.

Sherlock coughs once and John moves to hand him a cup of water.

“Then Heath’s personal physician, Dr Sanderson, paid me a visit this afternoon. He was in London, down from Edinburgh, to visit his sister. While here, he first learned of Wilson Health’s death. And he had news of a medical nature that he felt you, Lestrade, might need to know.”

Greg’s eyes narrow. He sits up straighter in his chair. “And just when were you going to give me this ‘news’ Sherlock?” he demands.

Sherlock shrugs. “Please, Lestrade. We attempted to contact you – as well as Donovan – and I intended to hand over Heath’s medical records to you in person. I promised Dr Sanderson I would give you his information. But none of that matters now. Because while Sanderson was with us in our flat this afternoon, he told us of Heath’s underlying medical condition.”

Sherlock begins to pace again. “I found it interesting that despite knowing he was dying – and quite painfully, too, I might add – Sergeant Wilson Heath accepted a transfer from East Lothian to the Met, which meant a change of household for him. And also meant that he must necessarily leave his younger sister, whom he was devoted to, in the hands of medical professionals who would see that she received the finest care. But competent medical care of this nature comes at a rather high cost.”

Sherlock pauses and glances at his audience. Donovan, Lestrade, and his mate, John Watson-Holmes.

He grimaces. “Which is why, once I learned of Heath’s impending demise and that he now had the added expense of his sister’s medical costs to shoulder, I realized the only possible motive behind Tomlinson’s and Heath’s murder. And the reason that a very ill policeman, who had a few months to live at the most, would not only accept a proffered rise in position and a physical change in his household. Obviously, a raise in salary must go along with such a job offer. And one assumes, insurance benefits.”

Sherlock spreads his hands out to his sides, as if to underscore his deductions. “The only motive that made any sense was … Sergeant Wilson Heath came to London to arrange his own assassination.”

No one speaks. He stares at his stunned audience.

“And to lend it verisimilitude, Heath arranged for his hired assassin to kill Sergeant Tomlinson first, before carrying out his own murder. Which would, of course, suggest a serial assassin, one targeting officers of New Scotland Yard, specifically, officers who worked in his division. That would be your Division, Lestrade.”

**OooOooO**

**“** Easy, Sir. I’ve got you. I think you’re going to be all right.”

Mycroft groggily opens stinging eyes. And realises two things at once. His cheek is cold. Apparently, he lies face down on the kitchen floor. Also, he is, apparently, still alive. He finds this fact extremely gratifying. He attempts to move and cannot suppress the groan.

“It’s all right. I’ve checked you for injuries. Ambulance is on its way. I’m going to roll you now.”

Mycroft keeps his eyes shut as he is gently rolled over onto his back. He waits for the vertigo to pass, then tries opening his eyes again.

The face that swims into focus is a familiar one. “Freeman?”

“Yes, Sir, it’s me. Try to be still. Give yourself a bit of time.”

Mycroft ignores this and blinks as he stares upward. “You’re bleeding, agent,” he says.

Freeman blinks. “Yes, Sir. I caught one just as I was making my rounds. I’m afraid I was out for a few minutes.”

Mycroft’s brain comes back online. He does his best to ignore the bit of static. Presumably, it will fade. “Couldn’t be helped, Agent. Is Franklin all right? Who was partnered with you tonight… O’Brien?”

“Mr. Franklin is breathing, Mr. Holmes. I’ve put him on one of the sofas and loosened his tie a bit. I think he’ll be more comfortable there. As for Michael … Agent O’Brien is dead, Sir.”

Mycroft absorbs this news in bitter silence for a moment.

“Regrettable," he says.  But his tone of voice does not fool Freeman one bit.  "You’re certain Franklin is uninjured?”

“I think so, Sir. Not sure why he wasn’t killed. I’m also uncertain as to why he didn’t make sure of me while he could do. We’ve had a bit of a night of it.  Two shots – one killed Agent O’Brien. The other missed me by centimeters, but it was enough to knock me out for a minute or two. I’ve left Mike’s – Agent O’Brien’s body outside. And here’s the ambulance now, Sir.”

Mycroft frowns. And struggles to rise. But firm hands push back on him gently, to keep him immobile. “Please, Mr. Holmes. I was out just long enough for someone to come in and pump some sort of gas into the kitchen. Frankly, I can’t suss why any of us are still alive. Let the medics check you over first, before you try to move.”

Mycroft recognises the wisdom in this. But it irks him. A faint whiff of something truly terrible assails his nostrils. Whatever it was, is fading rapidly. His heartbeat begins to settle down a bit.

“All right, Agent. But kindly call –”

“Already done. She’s on her way to the hospital. She’ll meet us there.”

Mycroft frowns. “I was speaking of Anthea, not my mother.”

“So was I, Sir _.”_

_Oh._

He sighs. “Then I guess my mother is next. And my brother.”

“Yes, Sir.”

_Gregory._

**OooOooO**

Dead silence greets Sherlock’s announcement. John, who knows Sherlock’s theory, stares at his mate with aching eyes. He is bone tired and wants nothing more than to go home and sleep. One month should do it. He sees the same signs of exhaustion on Sherlock’s face: tiny lines around the amazing eyes, lines that weren’t there a few weeks earlier, as well as the faint sheen of grey which paints the remarkable cheekbones. John shifts position, recrosses his ankles. And waits.

Sally Donovan stares at Sherlock as if she thinks he has finally lost whatever mind he possessed. She turns to her D.I., who sits beside her. Lestrade looks at Sherlock, then shakes his head.

“What now? Oh for gods sakes, Sherlock! You’re standing there and telling us that Heath arranged his own bloody murder?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Lestrade. And what’s more, I can prove it.”

Sherlock turns to John, who hands him the crumpled medical report Sanderson had given them earlier that afternoon. He also hands Sherlock his mobile, which contains a text from Molly Hooper, delineating the obvious signs of cancer, hitherto unsuspected, in the body of one very dead Sergeant Wilson Heath.

Dear Molly – torn between her duty to Lestrade and her personal loyalty to Sherlock – had texted Lestrade, who never saw it as his mobile had been taken from him. She had then taken the middle road and texted John the news of the second autopsy done on Heath’s body in a week.

Sherlock hands the documents to Lestrade, and then lets him read the small text that Molly sent John earlier. Lestrade reads quickly, then reaches to hand John his mobile. The D.I. drops the medical reports on the table in front of him.

“Sherlock, nothing here proves that Health planned his own murder. It merely shows that the man was dying and knew it.”

Sherlock nods. “Oh, Good. You follow. But from the documents that Sergeant Donovan was kind enough to provide me earlier this week, we now know that one of the last things Heath did before he was killed, was complete all of his employee benefits papers, naming Mariah Heath, his sister, as his sole beneficiary and heir. And one of those documents was a not-inconsiderable life insurance policy, with what I believe is called a – ”

“Double indemnity clause. Which pays off a considerable amount if Heath is – was – killed in the line of duty.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says. “And with a string of killings, no one would question his murder. He would simply be one in the chain. Most likely, no one would look at this murder more closely than the other.”

“But where does Barclay come in on this?” she says.

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, Donovan. The man just held a gun on both of you. What more does it take? Heath wasn’t here in London long, but he was here long enough to make Barclay’s acquaintance. The relationship was made to order. Barclay was bitter over being passed up for a promotion he felt he deserved and Heath was careful to play on that bitterness, probably reinforcing it again and again until he finally made his offer to Barclay. Who jumped at the opportunity to get back at the very people he felt were responsible for crushing his career aspirations.”

Sally shifts uncomfortably in her seat, then glances sideways at the D.I. She looks up from her notes and her brown eyes stare into Sherlock’s pale ones. “In the street, when we were nearly run down –”

Sherlock nods again. The dark curls droop over his forehead. John recognises his mate is coming down from the characteristic high of solving a difficult case. He needs to get Sherlock home and quickly. He rises to his feet.

Sherlock coughs and then continues. “The near accident was meant to lend credence to the idea that someone was targeting officers of the Met. And what better way to end a string of serial murders against the NSY, than an attempt at killing the Detective Inspector himself?”

John goes to stand next to Sherlock. He puts a hand on his husband’s wrist. Sherlock looks down into John’s eyes. John sees clear evidence of the past weeks on his husband’s pale face.

“Right, that’s enough,” John says.

He turns toward Lestrade and Donovan. “Greg, we have no doubt that Barclay is singing like a lark or will be. The rest of this will have to wait until Sherlock has had some rest.”

The detective frowns. “John –”

“Shut up, Sherlock. We’re going home. Greg can get our complete statements tomorrow, right?” This last directed to Lestrade, who has stood up. Sally glances up and flips her notepad shut.

“If Barclay hadn’t held a gun on us, I would never have believed any of this,” she says. She looks at Sherlock, seems to make up her mind, and then says, “Good job, Holmes.”

Startled, Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow. He has so seldom earned any sort of accolade from Donovan, that he recognises her statement for what it is – grudging respect. He nods once at her. She nods back. Then turns to the D.I.

“Sir? It’s been a long day and --”

Greg stirs. He still stares at Sherlock, who looks placidly back. “Go home, Donovan. Get some rest. We’ll sort all this out in the morning.”

She sighs. “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re the one who needs rest. I want to finish this. I’ll take his statement. ”

“I think our people are capable of taking Barclay’s statement without us,” Lestrade says. He scrubs his face with one hand. “Oh, hell, Sally. Yeah. Go ahead. I trust you more than anyone else here. Get what you can. Empty him. Then go home and get some rest. That’s an order.”

He reaches for the digital tape recorder, shuts it off, and hands it to her. “Make sure this gets into the right hands.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sally hesitates, as if she has something else to say, then just nods, tightlipped, and leaves the three men alone.

Greg moves around the table to stand next to John and Sherlock.

“Mycroft,” he begins.

“My brother’s shooting was obviously deliberate,” Sherlock says tiredly. “And make no mistake about it, Lestrade. John and I will find out who did it.”

“All right,” Greg says. “But in the meantime, I’m damned worried about him, Sherlock. And I’m not ashamed to say it.”

A tiny smile plays around the corner of the detective’s remarkable lips. “I’m well aware that you and my brother share a certain, shall we say—”

“What say we don’t continue this discussion right now,” John states. “We’re tired, Greg. We’re going home.”

Rapid footsteps and Sally Donovan rushes back into the interrogation room.

“Sherlock? One of your brother’s men just found me in the hall. Your brother has been attacked in his house. He’s going to be all right, according to the paramedics.   But he was found unconscious on the floor. He’s been taken to hospital, along with his –“

But Sherlock is already rushing from the room, followed closely by John.

And Greg Lestrade.

**OooOooO**

“It was meant as a warning, nothing more,” Mycroft says tiredly. Once more, he finds himself in another intolerable hospital bed in another intolerable hospital with his truly intolerable brother in attendance.

Sherlock stands at the foot of Mycroft’s hospital bed, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. His grey eyes rake over his older brother’s form. He does not reply to Mycroft’s statement, but sweeps the room and all the people in it with his keen gaze.

John stands off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. He listens to his brother-in-law, while he watches his husband. There are two agents who stand watch outside the hospital room door. And two more at the end of the hall. John wonders how much of the tax payers’ money goes to protecting the elder Holmes brother this night. Decides it isn’t enough, whatever the amount.

Greg stands back from the tableau, nearly in the shadows. He looks up to meet John’s sympathetic gaze. Then moves to stand next to Mycroft’s bed. The elder Holmes acknowledges his close presence without turning toward him.

“If he – whoever he was – wanted me dead, I’d be dead. I was completely at his mercy.”

Greg stirs. “Your men? How many?”

“One injured. One dead,” Mycroft says coldly. “O’Brien was a good man. He will be missed.”

 _And will be most heartily avenged_.

He doesn’t say it aloud. But everyone in the room hears the unspoken words.

Greg crosses his arms over his chest. “And this warning, you received it how, exactly?”

Mycroft lifts a single sheet of paper from his side, carefully encased in a plastic evidence bag. He hands it to Lestrade.

“You don’t do this job without making enemies,” Mycroft says.

Greg turns the bag over and over in his hands.

After a moment, he hands it to Sherlock, who holds it up to the light. Heavy crème-colored vellum. Obviously expensive. Two printed lines in dark black ink. Short and the point.

**_Just an observation, Holmes. Regina Holmes is a lovely woman, is she not?_ **

Sherlock relinquishes it to John, who glances over it, then hands it back to Lestrade.

Mycroft’s steel blue eyes meet his brother’s pale grey ones over the hospital bed. John watches both of the brothers. He says nothing. But he knows the three of them are united in deadly purpose.

Greg silently hands the missive back to Mycroft. He looks around at the other men. Sherlock and John look at Greg and Sherlock raises one expressive eyebrow at the cold anger in the D.I.’s steady gaze.

“ _Make that four, then_ ,” John thinks.

“Right,” Gregory Lestrade says. “You’ll want to find out who the bloody hell ordered this attack on you and your people. Where do you suggest we start?”

“We start with my brother and dear brother-in-law getting the hell out of my hospital room,” Mycroft says with tired determination.

Sherlock and Mycroft look at each other. Mycroft’s head inclines marginally. John sees the sleuth’s eyebrows raise, then he nods back at his elder brother. The movements are slight, barely perceptible.

 _Now what?_ thinks John. _If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it._

John moves silently to his mate’s side. “Come on, then,” he says quietly.

Sherlock glances at Greg, and leaves with John.

“Please close the door, Gregory,” Mycroft says.

Greg moves to shut the door behind the two men. He turns toward Mycroft.

The two of them are alone.

“Now come here,” Mycroft orders.

Greg Lestrade leans his back against the closed hospital room door and raises one grey eyebrow. He stares into Mycroft’s steel blue eyes, then slowly and deliberately, reaches out a hand and switches off the overhead lights. The room is plunged into near darkness. Only the faint lights behind Mycroft’s bed remain on.

“You know, for a lanky git, you sure have become bossy of late,” he says gruffly. “Maybe you’d better come here. I think your legs still work.”

Mycroft straightens his spine and looks back at the D.I. Then a slow smile spreads over his tired face. “Very well.”

He flings the sheet back, swings his bare legs over the side and stands, lamentably wearing the idiotic hospital gown that is a mile too short for him.

Entirely unconcerned about his near nudity, he walks carefully over to Lestrade. And stands in front of him. The two men are nearly eye to eye, Mycroft a bit taller.

“Inspector?” the elder Holmes asks.

Greg looks slightly up into the cool blue eyes, then mutters under his breath.

“To hell with this dancing around.”

One hand goes to Mycroft’s good shoulder, the other circles the back of his head and grabs at his dark hair. Greg tugs.

Mycroft bends his head slightly and Greg tips his back and their lips meet somewhere in the middle.

The D.I. pulls back first, and notes with satisfaction that the younger man is a bit breathless. He smirks. _I did this to Mycroft Holmes._

Mycroft clasps Greg more closely to him with his good hand. Greg doesn’t let go of his shoulder. The two men stand and breathe together for a moment.

Greg moistens his lips. “First things, first. Your Mum?”

“Safe,” Mycroft says, his voice deeper than Greg has heard it. “Obviously.   She’s not in the country right now, Gregory. And will remain away until this threat is neutralized. She’s well guarded, I assure you.”

Greg nods. “Right. Okay. I was going to order her taken into protective custody but as you’ve already taken care of business …” He lets the rest of the statement trail off.

“Are you always going to be this dictatorial?” Mycroft asks quietly. He bends his head slightly and begins to plant a small trail of kisses over Greg’s forehead.

Greg shuts his eyes. “Probably. Comes with the job,” he says softly. He sighs as the soft lips leave tiny caresses at the corner of one eye and then across to the other. He opens them to stare into Mycroft’s amused gaze.

“Are you always going to be this difficult to control?”

As he speaks, his calloused fingers tighten in the dark strands at the nape of Mycroft’s neck. Tighten and begin to rub small circles over the warm skin.

“Probably,” Mycroft asserts. “Comes with the name.”

Greg thinks for a moment. “All right. I’m involved with a Holmes. In fact, _the_ Holmes. Fine.” He smiles at Mycroft. “I’m a sensible man. I’ll just do the sensible thing.”

Mycroft looks steadily at him and something in the region of his heart gives a small leap. When he speaks, his voice is a half octave lower.

“And what would that be?” Mycroft whispers.

Greg’s warm hand tightens on equally warm skin. His pulse quickens.

“Learn to live with it,” he says.

**OooOooO**

As she waits for Barclay to be brought back into the interrogation room, Sally Donovan reads over her notes. Then she flips through Sergeant Heath’s file. It’s thin enough that it only takes her a few minutes. Finished, she drops the folder onto her desk and stares ahead of her. Something, some small sense of foreboding, buzzes around in her tired brain. Something’s _off._

Holmes seems to have hit all the salient points, all right. It all makes a weird kind of sense. As much sense as any of the sleuth’s deductions make. Lestrade has a great deal of trust in him. Still, she feels that something is not quite right. Sally taps one manicured nail on the table as she thinks.

_I only knew Heath for a little while. He seemed a good enough bloke. Decent. Well-liked. Managed to make a few friends while he was here. Obviously cared about his sister. Makes sense about the murder plot. I can see how someone, a bloke at the end of his rope, might come up with such a scheme. So, yeah, the freak probably has that right. But for the life of me, I can’t see why a decent man would agree to --_

The sound of her text chime interrupts. Sally pulls out her mobile to glance at the screen. She reads Sherlock’s insistent text, then tosses the phone on the table in front of her in a huff. _Holmes again!_ Will she ever be rid of him this night? She leans back in her chair and glares at the small screen with its tiny black letters as if it has personally affronted her.  

The door opens and Sally looks up as the text chime sounds a second time. She ignores it as Barclay is brought into the room, his broken wrist encased in plaster, his other cuffed to one of the two officers who accompany him. Sally watches as he is seated across from her.  She idly wonders about calling his solicitor back.  But the man has already made a statement, in front of witnesses.  She frowns.

Third chime.

More than annoyed, she picks up her phone to read the two missed messages. Her eyes widen, then narrow at the words on the small screen. Shite! He has a point. And he’s not going to stop until he gets his answer. Right.

Sally nods and sets the phone to vibrate. Then sets it carefully on the file in front of her. And looks across at Barclay.

Holmes is an interfering amateur that should never be allowed to a crime scene. This much is true. But she’s spent more than enough time going round and round on that point with Lestrade.

She doesn’t like Sherlock, but his questions do make sense. And they serve to underscore her own uneasiness about the case.   And, if she’s honest with herself, there are dozens of solved cases in the D.I.’s files that would still be open except for Sherlock Holmes.

For once, she won’t mind following through on Sherlock’s insistent instructions. She taps out a quick reply, then switches her mobile to vibrate and places her phone on the table in front of her. She laces her fingers together and looks at Barclay with renewed interest.

One officer keeps his hand on Barclay’s near shoulder as the other one leans to snap the cuff that holds Barclay's good wrist to a metal loop embedded in the table. Sally nods at the first officer, who nods back and leaves the room. He will listen and watch through the two –way glass. The second officer stands back to watch the proceedings, just in case. His steady gaze never leaves the back of Barclay’s head.

He glances around, then fixes his gaze on Donovan. “Well? I thought I answered all your detective bloke’s questions. What’s all this?”

Sally smiles. The smile does not reach her eyes. “All this?”

She sweeps her hand over the file in front of her and her own notes, then leans toward the prisoner. She taps the thin file in front of her with one manicured finger.

“Holmes had 97% of it right,” she says. “I’m here to get the missing 3%.”

Barclay’s eyes narrow as he regards Donovan. There’s a moment’s silence. Then he shrugs.

“Took you long enough,” he says in an affable tone of voice.

Sally smiles.  Is it the pain meds talking here?  And in the end, does it really matter?

_Good. He wants to brag. Don’t they all, in the end?_

She switches on the small digital recorder.

“Let’s begin again, right?”

OooOooO

Dissatisfied and frankly fuming, John can’t get comfortable in the back of the taxi.

He stares out the window, unseeing, at the landscape. As he goes over the conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft, he frowns and his right hand clenches, opens, clenches.

He shifts position a few times, then huffs his annoyance.

Sherlock glances over at him. His gaze takes in the ex-soldier’s posture and increasing agitation.

“Out with it, John.” Sherlock’s voice is tired and shows signs of strain. “What’s bothering you?”

John turns to Sherlock with a frown. “I imagine the same thing that’s bothering you, Sherlock. Or should be.”

He nods. “Barclay? You’re right, John. I am a bit uneasy, as well. I was just texting Donovan.“

His soldier stares. “Barclay? Sherlock, for gods’ sake! I’m not thinking of Barclay. You sorted all that. The note! The note Mycroft received directly threatens Regina … your Mum. How can you just sit there and –”

“Please, John. As if either of us would gamble with Mummy’s life. I assure you, our mother is not even in England anymore. She was removed to safety hours ago. Mycroft’s PA took care of it.” He holds up his mobile. “I’ve already had a text. She’s quite safe.”

John stares at him, incredulous, then his dark blue eyes close in relief. “You might have mentioned it.” His tone is a near growl and Sherlock notes it.

“I meant to, John. But I honestly did not think you would ever consider that we would leave her unguarded. An obvious mistake on my part.”

John’s hand clenches again and this time, stays clenched in a tight ball. He sets his jaw and turns to his window to try to calm his breathing.

There are times he thinks his husband is the most brilliant man on the planet. And there are other times – brilliance or no -- that he just wants to punch him.

One of the most heralded landscapes in the world – London by night – flashes by his window. John spares no thought to it. He grits his teeth. When he speaks, his breath fogs the window.

“Thanks for some very bad moments, husband mine.”

“Oh, come off it. You’re fine.”

 _How is it that I love him so much?_ John shakes his head and counts slowly in Pashto. When he reaches 30, he tries again.

“Okay, then. Regina is safe. And your brother’s people will –“

“I assure you, John, Mycroft’s people will ascertain the source of the threat and neutralize it as quickly as humanly possible.” He shrugs. “After all, it’s what he does for a living. Although, he might look to recent political opponents. There are bound to be several who might enjoy taking a shot at him.”

John sighs again, a bone deep sigh that serves to let out most of his pent-up frustration. He looks at his reflection, straightens his shoulders, then turns toward Sherlock.

“Fine. It’s all sorted, right? Heath’s murder. Barclay’s involvement. The threat to your Mum. That still leaves us with one big question. Who shot your brother?”

“Actually, John, disregarding the threat against Mycroft – again, I assure you, that situation will resolve itself in due time - it leaves us with two questions, as I’ve just indicated. I’ve been going over the case in my mind since we left Mycroft. I’m not entirely satisfied with my resolution. There are two valid points I may have failed to consider. A second error on my part, most probably due to exhaustion and lack of food.”

John frankly stares at him. “Can I get that in writing?”

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. He waves a languid hand in the air. “It’s obvious that my initial assessment was off, just a bit. The past weeks have been a bit _distracting_.”

“A bit,” John repeats. He wonders what constitutes “a bit” in the detective’s quicksilver mind.

“Yes, John. I’ve texted Donovan to request that she ask two pertinent questions of the prisoner. Ah, that should be her now.”

He brings up his mobile to read the screen, then nods. “Excellent,” he mutters. “She’s about to speak to Barclay now.”

“And you don’t’ want to be present for that interrogation?”

“Tedious. Donovan can handle it. As for now …” the tired baritone trails off.

“Now?” John asks.

Sherlock drops his mobile onto the seat between them.

“Now, we wait, John. And use the time as best we can.”

Sherlock pulls his coat more tightly around his thin frame, then crosses his arms over his chest. He stretches out his long legs as far as they will go in the cramped cab, and shuts his eyes.

His next words are said in a voice pitched so low, John has to strain to hear.

“The last salient points rest in Donovan’s hands. I’m certain she’s more than capable enough to ask a few defining questions. After that, the first case will be complete.”

“Again,” John says, “would you be willing to let me record that on my phone?”

In response, Sherlock just grunts.

A few moments later, he begins to snore.

**OooOooO**

Sally looks at Barclay with undisguised hostility. She goes over Sherlock’s question in her head and matches it up with her own internal misgivings. Then she just shrugs. She’s tired. Hell, they’re all tired. But she’s a damn good cop, always has been. No way that she’s letting this one go without some answers.

She decides to ask the one question on her mind, straight out, and see what happens.

There’ll be time for Holmes’ question afterwards.

“Why Tomlinson?”

Whatever Barclay was expecting, it isn’t this. He frowns.

“What?”

“You heard me. Sergeant Tomlinson. Why him?”

Sally stops speaking, and ignores the human need to fill the silence with sound. If she’s right, if Barclay is ready to get chummy and brag a bit, well, he’ll do more than enough talking for the both of them.

She fixes Barclay with a cold stare and notes it as he shifts slightly in his seat. His fingers twitch and his wrists turn in the handcuffs.

Good.  

“You have my statement. I told that Holmes arse earlier –”

“You’re telling me now, not Holmes. Why Tomlinson?”

Barclay frowns. “I want my solicitor back.”

“Of course, if that’s what you want. But you’ve had your solicitor here – what was his name? Compton? And you made a statement with him present.”

She considers him for a moment. “You’ve as good as admitted it all, Barclay. In front of witnesses, your solicitor, cameras. You held a gun to the D.I for Gods’ sake. What’s a few more questions, hmm?

He frowns. “It was Heath’s choice, his decision. I was just the –”

He breaks off and fidgets, tries to get comfortable. His wrist strains against the cuff.

“You’ll want to stop doing that,” she says. "You've just go the good one left."

“Maybe,” Barclay says sarcastically. “Maybe I want to make a point for police brutality.”

Sally laughs.

Barclay frowns. This conversation is not going the way he expected. Some of his earlier bravado slips away. He glances pointedly over her head to the glass wall behind her.

She leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why Tomlinson?”

Barclay drags his attention back to Donovan.

“I told you. Tomlinson was the one that Heath picked. Could have been anyone. Turned out to be Tomlinson. End of story.”

Sally’s eyes narrow.   A different tactic, then.

She raises her voice and pounds on the table in front of her with a flattened palm.

“You’re lying.”

Not expecting even this simple trick, Barclay startles.

Sally drops the file in front of her with a resounding smack. She picks up her pen and begins to drum it against the table, a trick she has seen Lestrade use more times than she can count. She smiles pleasantly at Barclay.

“Now we can sit here all night. Go round and round. Or you can answer the bloody question. Why Tomlinson?”

Barclay’s eyes stray to the folder, then back to Donovan’s. He frowns.

“That’s your only question?” he says.

“You answer that one and we’ll see where it gets us.”

Barclay stares at her fingers as she taps the manila file with its neatly typed label. His eyes shift around the room as he examines his options, then come back to rest on Sally.

“I want a deal,” he says sulkily.

“No deal,” she says. “Talk.”

Barclay stares at her, then wets his lips. “What are the other questions?” he asks. A small bead of sweat spills down from his forehead and drops into his eye. He shakes his head and winces. “I’ve already been asked a shite load tonight. Why should I answer any more?”

“Because I’ve nothing else on and I can do this all night. Answer the question.”

Barclay watches her as she slips one sheet of paper from the file, glances at it, and then scoots it across the table in front of him. He glances down. It’s his initial statement. More beads of sweat drop into his eyes. They sting.

She notes Barclay’s demeanor, recalls his bragging words to her and Lestrade in the D.I.’s office.

She thinks of Sherlock’s dual question: “ _How much did Heath pay_ _Barclay and where did he get the cash?”_ and how to best work it into the interrogation.

Dear God, but she’s exhausted. But she promised Lestrade. And knackered or not, she intends to see this arse pay. She flips open Barclay’s file again, pulls out Sergeant Heath’s photograph and drops it on the table. It scoots across the slick table top directly between her and Barclay.

She looks across at Barclay, whose eyes are now pinned to Heath’s photograph. Sally frowns and looks from Barclay’s dead calm eyes to the photo of the deceased Sergeant Heath. And remembers the last time she spoke with Heath. He seemed tired. Heath always seemed tired. But his voice was kind.

Then it happens. Just like that, her exhaustion falls away and she experiences an epiphany. Sally holds her breath, afraid the sudden clarity will vanish.

Second wind. Stream of consciousness. However she pegs it, Sally’s warm brown eyes widen as the facts of the case coalesce in one blinding stream. She feels almost giddy from the head rush as the puzzle pieces fall neatly into place.

_Jesus. Is this how Holmes feels all the time? No wonder he bounces around like a kid in a sweet shop._

Elated, Sally glances at Barclay, then to the officer who stands behind him, his arms still crossed over his chest. She nods once at the man, and holds up four fingers. He nods back and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Barclay watches all of this with confusion. And growing agitation.

“Where’d he go?” he asks.

“Don’t you worry about it,” she says.

Sally drops the pen to the desk. She slips the single sheet of paper back into the folder. She folds her hands together and leans forward.

“Since you refuse to talk, how are you at listening?”

Barclay frowns. “What?”

Sally smiles. “Sergeant Heath never paid you to kill Sergeant Tomlinson. That was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

Barclay’s eyes widen. He swallows. But she doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

“Let’s go over the timeline, shall we?”

She picks up the pen and taps it against the folder in front of her.

Tap.

“Sergeant Wilson Heath meets you after he’s been on the job a week, maybe two. The two of you hit it off and go for a coffee. Maybe you start having lunch together. Maybe you go out for drinks or to watch the football. Either way, you get chummy.   You tell him that you were passed over for promotion. You tell him how you’d like to get back at the Yard. To get back at Lestrade. How am I doing?”

Barclay swallows. His eyes never leave Donovan’s.

Tap.

“And Heath, he was a good listener, wasn’t he? Yeah, he was. I didn’t know him that long but long enough to know he was a good cop, a sympathetic listener.”

Sally fixes Barclay with her dark gaze. Her eyes glow under the fluorescent lights.

Tap.

“One night, after both of you have had a few, after you tell him your little tale of woe, he tells you his. He talks about his sister. He tells you how he’s afraid he won’t be able to afford her medical care.”

Sally drops her voice, drops the pen and leans toward Barclay.

“He tells you how he put his sister in a home to be cared for and took the transfer, hoping to save up enough cash to provide for her needs, to maybe put a bit aside before he dies. He tells you what he’s already managed to aside. Yeah, we know now that he sold his car when he moved to London, and leased out his house, so he had some bit put away. And that’s when you get your idea.”

Sally straightens up. Her eyes never leave his.

“Holmes had it wrong, didn’t he, Barclay? Heath never planned his own murder. You did. You pegged the idea. And you sold it to him. Told him you would take care of everything. Make it look like he died in the line of duty. Told him you’d just make it all go away.   The constant worry over his sister. The physical and emotional pain he was in, growing worse day by day. All of it, including the sleepless nights, all of it would just go away.”

Sally’s voice is warm now and Barclay can’t for the life of him look away from her eyes.

She smiles. “You promised you’d take care of all of it. And all that lovely insurance money would go to take care of his little sister. You’d do it for the amount of cash Heath had managed to save up. Several thousands of pounds, right? Not enough to care for his sister, long term, but more than enough to help you get started in a nice new career somewhere. And he went for it, didn’t he, Barclay? Christ, how many pints did he have in him when he agreed to this shite plan?”

Barclay’s breathing becomes jerky. He stares at Sally. She smiles back.

“And at the same time, you’d get some of your own back at the Met. You were part of Lestrade’s team. Odds are, you’d be called in on it. Child’s play to hide the evidence when you’re one of the cops Johnny on the spot. And after? Well, after you’d thoroughly enjoyed the show you’d just walk away and leave Lestrade and the rest of us standin’ round like chickens without heads.”

Sally’s voice drops to a threatening tone, deadly.

“You’re a seasoned cop, ex-military. You know how to kill someone and make it look like the Met had a cop killer on their hands, right? And who would ever suspect it was one of our own?”

Sally tilts her head as if Barclay is a bug under a lens.

“But you realized that … in order to have a serial killer, there has to be more than one murder. If one dead police officer is good, then two is better, yeah? Only you didn’t bother to tell Heath. You took Heath’s money. Then went and shot Tomlinson first. Left his body to be found. You went to Heath to tell him what you’d done. And why.”

Sally’s voice softens. Her eyes narrow. “Want to tell me what happened when you told Heath you’d killed Tomlinson?”

Barclay stares at her with derision. “You’re doing so good. You tell me, Sergeant Donovan.” He spits out ‘ _Sergeant_ ’ like it’s a dirty word.

_Gotcha!_

Sally glances down at the digital recorder that Barclay has all but forgotten. Behind her, she knows the two officers have also recorded their conversation. She hopes to God everyone is on their toes.

“You took his money. You shot Tomlinson. Shall I tell you why you chose Tomlinson as your first victim, by the way? It’s because he was promoted last go, right?”   Sally’s dark curls shake. Barclay says nothing. But she feels sick.

“And that’s why the initial confusion. Where was the motive? Neither Tomlinson nor Heath worked together. They barely knew each other. The only thing Tomlinson had in common with Heath, the only thing that connected both victims, was that they were both in Lestrade’s division. That turned out to be the unifying factor. Mistake number one, Barclay. Two cops in the same division? The killer had to be someone who had it in for us and that means someone who had it in for Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Sally sits back in her seat and fixes Barclay with a cold stare. “As a pro, you turned out to be a bit rubbish, you know?”

He doesn’t make a sound, but sweat pours down his face and into his collar.

She nods grimly. “You told Heath what you’d done and why. You expected him to agree. After all, he didn’t know the man. They weren’t mates. And you hadn’t charged him money for killing Tomlinson. You did it to get back at Lestrade. You knew the D.I. well enough to know how much pain losing an officer would cause him. Not only that, if you were good enough, covered your tracks well enough, the Met would look bad and Lestrade worse in the Commissioner’s eyes. Not to mention the bloody public screaming for his head on a bloody platter.”

Sally picks up the folder. She flips it open.

“You went to Heath. And Heath went insane. He hadn’t bargained with a second murder. He threatened to turn you in. Both of you. To confess to it all. And that’s when you shot and killed him, isn’t it? You had to improvise. No time to carry out your original plan. So much blood from a head wound, isn’t there, Barclay? So much damned blood. You didn’t count on killing him just then. You had a plan to do it later, nice and neat. But you had no choice. Cause he threatened to go to Lestrade and tell him all about it, right? Cause Wilson Heath was, basically, a decent man. While he could – and did – plan his own suicide by murder…he drew the line at killing an innocent man. And that one a fellow cop.”

She flips a second photograph onto the table. It comes to rest next to the photo of Wilson Heath. Sergeant Tomlinson. Barclay’s eyes go to the photos. His face is ashen. Grey.

Sally’s voice hardens. “We’ve got it right, haven’t we? Yeah. We got it right, Barclay. Except for one small detail. Maybe you didn’t take Sherlock Holmes into account and you panicked. Maybe you figured to make it a trio of killings, Lestrade being the last. In for a penny, after all. Besides, it was the D.I. you were really mad at, right? So you went for Lestrade. Made it look as if someone tried to run him down in the bloody street. Of course, you veered at the last moment. But then you lost it. You came for him direct. You might even have made it. But Sherlock Holmes shows up and…end of story.”

Dead silence. Sally sits back in her seat. “I must be ruddy tired or something, Barclay. I’ve lost track of the stupid, dumb arsed amateur mistakes you made. What’s your count?”

Barclay’s chest heaves. He takes one shuddering breath, then another.

“You bitch.” He struggles in the handcuffs, clenching and unclenching his hands. “You bloody bitch. And I never took a shot at Lestrade. That shooting wasn’t mine!”

Sally nods, finally satisfied.

Through with the bastard in front of her, she stands and stretches. Then turns to nod at the glass wall behind her.

The door opens and two officers come into the room, their faces grim. Sally leans over and picks up the recorder. She hands it to the first officer.

“I need some coffee,” she says.

She leaves the room, a string of increasingly loud invectives shouted in the air behind her.

She couldn’t care less.

As she gathers her coat and purse, Sally texts Lestrade.

He calls her almost immediately.

His voice is rough, nearly breathless. She winces, and tries to keep her summary brief. Frankly, she just wants this day to be over. What she may – or may not – have interrupted in Mycroft Holmes’s hospital room, she really, truly does not want to know.

“Good job, Sergeant. You’ll be after my job next.”

She smiles. “No sir. Don’t want it, thanks all the same.”

“Okay, Sal. File the details and for God’s sake, go home and rest. I don’t expect to see you for the next two days.”

“Good night, Sir.”

“Night, Sal. Again, excellent work. Oh, and Sally?”

She pauses in the act of working one arm through her coat sleeve. “Yes, Sir?”

“Let me be the one who texts Sherlock, okay?”

“My pleasure, Sir.”

Greg laughs gently. “Okay then. Wish I could see his face when he realizes he was just a tad bit off on this one.”

Sally takes a deep breath. Her conscious twinges her, just a bit. “He still solved it, Sir. Well, 98%.”

“Let’s give him an even 90% on this one,” Greg huffs. He hangs up.

Sally stares at her phone, then shrugs and drops it into her purse.

**OooOooO**

He dials the number, waits the requisite four rings, hangs up. Taps his fingers on his phone for a full minute, then dials again.

The recipient picks up on the second ring.

“You have sixty seconds. Your remuneration was transmitted to your Swiss account. I expect no further communications between us, after this last.”

The shooter stares out the window of his room at the grey day, then shakes his head.

“I have no problem with that. But I do have an observation.”

“Make it quick.” His employer’s voice is curt.

The shooter glances at his watch. The seconds are ticking down.

“Why the shoulder shot? Why not the head? Holmes would be as dead as his dead agent and a lot of your problems would be laid to rest with his body.”

“That is not your concern. I did not request nor am I paying for the dead agent and the injured one. That was entirely your lookout.” There is a slight pause and just when the shooter thinks the other man has hung up – “The ultimate objective was to cause Mycroft Holmes pain. That objective has been achieved.”

The shooter frowns. He glances again at his watch. Nearly 60 seconds. Time to hang up, toss this phone in the Thames and walk away, a very wealthy man.

“All right. But the threat against the matriarch …”

“My objective was achieved. Your services are no longer required.”

He tries once again. “If you need me in the future –“

“I am well aware of how to reach you.”

The line goes dead.

The shooter glances at his phone again, then shrugs. He knows, should he attempt to reach the number again, that it will no longer be in service. He pries the tiny card out of his phone and flushes it down the toilet. Then he spends five minutes packing up his few belongings, glances around the newly tidied flat, and leaves.

On the street, he heads for the Thames, whistling.

**EPILOGUE THE FIRST**

Sherlock’s text chime sounds just once before John snatches it off the seat between them and silences the phone. He glances at the screen. And a slow grin spreads across his face.

He thinks fast. Then texts Lestrade back.

**He’s sleeping, Greg. This is John.**

**Nearly back to Baker Street.**

**JW**

 

_Let the man rest. Just wanted him to know_

_Barkley cracked. Donovan’s got the fine details._

_Sorry to say, our boyo missed a few things this go round._

_GL_

**Good on Sally.**

**I really don’t want to be the one**

**to tell Sherlock he was off on this one, Greg.**

**JW**

_Sorry, Mate. I got other fish to fry, so to speak._

_I won’t be reachable for a while_

_GL_

**There’s such a thing as too much detail, Greg.**

**JW**

_\--_

_\--_

_\--_

**Greg?**

**JW**

_\--_

**Greg?**

**JW**

_\--_

**Okay then.**

**JW**

**\--**

**\--**

 

Sherlock stirs briefly and speaks without opening his eyes. “Who was that, John? Donovan?”

John lays the mobile back on the seat between them.

“Er. Not really. Lestrade.”

Sherlock cracks one eye. “And?”

“And we’ll be back at Baker Street in 15 minutes, Sherlock. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when we get there. And tell you all about it.”

“Fine. Whatever.”   The sleuth is asleep again nearly before he stops speaking.

John just grins.

**EPILOGUE THE LAST**

Mycroft has a soft-spoken and very short conference with one of his agents. He drops his mobile onto the small side table next to his juice glass and looks steadily at Lestrade.

“I’ve just guaranteed we won’t be interrupted for the duration,” he says.

Greg’s eyes widen, as he considers this information. He watches as Mycroft drops his hospital issue robe onto the floor, pads across the floor all but buck naked, then swings his long legs up and onto the bed. He slides the covers aside and pats the space next to him.

Greg grins. “Truly? Here in hospital?”

In answer, Mycroft simply raises one eyebrow.

The D.I. just shakes his grey head and begins to unbutton his shirt. He discards it and his vest in one sweep, then tugs at his belt as he walks over to Mycroft.

He sits on the edge of the mattress and bends over to unlace and toe off his worn shoes. As he undresses, taking his own sweet time, Mycroft reaches out one hand to softly caress the D.I’s neck and to run his long fingers through the short cropped grey hair.

Greg yanks off socks and trousers, then leans back into the warm palm.

“Hmmm. Can you arrange to never stop doing that?” he hums.

“Something might be worked out,” the elder Holmes says.

Greg twists to look at Mycroft, then glances at the small space next to his paramour.

“Not a lot of room in these beds,” he comments.

Mycroft smiles the patented, devilish Holmes smile.

“Then we’ll just have to budge up, Gregory,” he says.

**OooOooO**


End file.
